


The Serpent's Gaze, Book Two: Slytherin's Secrets

by DictionaryWrites



Series: The Serpent's Gaze: A Slytherin!Harry AU [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Black Hermione Granger, Chamber of Secrets, Character Death, Emotional Manipulation, Exploration, Gen, Magical History, Minor Violence, Plot, Plotty, Politics, Puberty, Slytherin Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-03 06:10:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 36,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6599854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Chamber of Secrets is open, and the horrors within are illuminated by dismal torchlight, squinting down at their thick journals and handwritten notes as they peer around the room. The abandoned halls, long-since built by Salazar Slytherin, are crawling with them... <i>Historians</i>.</p><p>Harry's second year at Hogwarts looks to be even more eventful than his first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Long Summer

Summer that year in Little Whinging, Surrey, is hot. Harry sweats a little as he kneels outside, lips pressed together as he focuses on the wood fence in front of him. Dudley's idiot friends had cracked part of the frame away last week, and now Harry carefully nails it back into place. There are only four pickets that need to be replaced, and then he'll start about painting them white.

A white picket fence, in Harry's mind, only adds to the comically cartoonish state of Little Whinging's perfectly manicured lawns and flowerbeds, but Aunt Petunia had had it installed in January.

"Are you nearly done, boy?" demands Uncle Vernon from the doorstep. Harry holds the hammer in his right hand, closing his eyes for just a second to keep from snapping at the man.

"Nearly, Uncle Vernon. I'm just going to nail the last two panels in place, and then I'll put on the first coat of paint."

"The neighbours can see you."

"Can they?" Harry whistles. "I never realized."

"Don't you cheek me!" Harry rolls his eyes, lining up another nail, and he ignores Uncle Vernon as he stomps forwards, body rolling gelatinously under the brown fabric of his jumper and cheeks quickly purpling. Harry hammers the nail into place, carefully, and then he holds the hammer in his lap, looking up at Uncle Vernon with mockingly expectant eyes.

As soon as Harry had entered 4 Privet Drive upon his return from London, Uncle Vernon had snatched his trunk from him and thrown it under the stairs, locking the latch with a newly bought padlock. Only Harry's Muggle shopping bags and Hedwig had been permitted to accompany him up the stairs to Dudley's second bedroom, and all Harry actually had to entertain him inside were a few Muggle novels Mrs Granger had bought him as an early birthday present and the set of wizard-themed, Muggle playing cards that had made him laugh when he'd seen them in one of the charity shops.

Before driving him to Little Whinging from London, the Grangers had accompanied Harry in buying some extra reading material in Diagon Alley, as well as more parchment and quills, but they'd also gone through different charity shops in the Muggle part of London. Harry had picked up some Muggle trousers, t-shirts, jumpers and shoes that wouldn't raise eyebrows as much as Dudley's ridiculously over-sized hand-me-downs, and he and Hermione had also picked out some different Muggle paperbacks - Mr and Mrs Granger had said they didn't read enough Muggle fiction at school, and Harry didn't think they were wrong. The cards had been a 50p afterthought, and he'd just thought the pictures of black-robed sorcerers and bright green witches were funny.

Three days into the summer, unable to do his homework, read any of his new magical books, and left to do chores outside, Harry's really beginning to lose patience with his Muggle relatives.

"Can I help you, Uncle Vernon?"

"You'd better not be doing- doing- that." Harry stares up at him. His wand is tucked into his jean pocket, and while he'd received a note explaining the illegality of performing magic outside of school, keeping his wand to hand isn't against any rules.

"I can stop fixing the fence if you really want me to," Harry says dryly, "But I feel like Aunt Petunia might be annoyed."

"You know what I mean!"

"What?" Harry asks innocently. "Magic?" Vernon gasps, going such an extreme shade of purple he looks like he might spontaneously transmogrify into a plum.

"Don't," he growls, "Don't you say that word!"

"Spellwork? Sorcery? Enchantment?" Vernon stamps his foot hard on the ground, shaking his fist, but Harry doesn't even flinch. What's the man going to do, hit him? Lock him inside? Kick him out of the house? Harry could only be so lucky. Vernon stalks back up the path and into the house, slamming the door so hard behind him that the windows of 4 Privet Drive shake, and Harry looks at the picket in his hand, frowning.

Why is he doing this? He doesn't like the Dursleys, and by no means do they like him. He doesn't want to be here, but they can't actually force him to do these chores any more than Harry could force Dudley to say please and thank you. Harry drops the piece of wood on the ground, standing up and making his way into the house.

The television is blaring in the living room, and Harry can see Uncle Vernon and Dudley's eyes focused on the television, which is showing some cars racing around a track, and Harry leans to the left, peering down into the kitchen through the mostly-closed door. Aunt Petunia is concentrated on the cupcakes she's baking, intent on making them without letting a single drop of mixture touch the kitchen counter.

Harry turns back to his cupboard and, with a short, sharp movement of the hammer, he brings it down on the padlock's edge. The cheap metal snaps under the sudden pressure, and Harry pulls it off, dropping it uncaringly onto the floor with the hammer. Both drop almost silently onto the carpet, drowned out by the loud engine roars from the television.

He grasps his trunk by its handles, carrying it sideways up the stairs without letting it hit the floor. The charm on it means that once things are put inside the trunk, they don't add anything to its weight, but he still has to carry the weight of the trunk itself, and given its big and bulky shape, it's not exactly easy to maneuver. Once the trunk is in his room, though, Harry sets it down, opening it up. In the corner of the room, perched on top of her open cage, Hedwig lets out a quiet trill of amusement.

"What?" Harry asks. "None of them stopped me." Hedwig tilts her head, looking at him in the strange, intelligent way she always does, and Harry smiles as he looks to the trunk.

The trunk is enchanted, as all of the trunks intended for Hogwarts usually are, and Harry pulls forwards the compartment intended for books, neatly putting his new Muggle books inside before he closes the compartment back. Each compartment is visible as a leather strap sticking out of an apparent drawer in the side of the trunk, but once he pulls it out, it expands and lets him add or remove objects. He opens up a compartment he hasn't used before, and he folds his new Muggle clothes inside. He never bothered to pack his things into dresser or wardrobe in Dudley's room, which are overfull with discarded junk, and it's nice to have his stuff in its proper place. He thinks about throwing the plastic bags the Muggle purchases had come in away, but then he shrugs, folding them and putting them in with his Muggle clothes.

With that, he removes some parchment, quills and ink from the bottom of the trunk, and he begins to write.

_Dear Hermione,_

_Sorry for the delay. The Dursleys locked my trunk up once I_  
_got into the house, and I just pulled it out from under the_  
_stairs. They're probably going to have a little fit about not_  
_being able to withhold my evil magic stuff away from me,_  
_but I can't just do chores all summer and pretend I'm not a_  
_wizard._

_Hope your summer's going well, and write me back with_  
_what you're up to! I'm probably gonna start on that Potions_  
_essay tonight - I just wish the library in town was anything_  
_like as useful as the one at school, but I guess we have to make_  
_do._

_Speak to you soon,_  
_Harry_

He shakes the parchment to dry the ink a little bit, and then he starts another letter.

_Dear Fred and George,_

_Hey, guys, hope you got home all day. I hear someone confiscated_  
_that toilet seat from you on the train, which is a real big shame -_  
_I feel like it would have been a really good thing to mount on the_  
_wall, you know, kinda like how like people mount hunting trophies._

_D'you think you guys would be able to teach me to pick locks_  
_the non-magical way? I've seen you guys get around padlocks that_  
_way, and I just had to smash a lock here with a hammer. My aunt_  
_and uncle locked my trunk out of the way, and I'd just like to know_  
_a subtler way to uh, you know._

_Defy my relatives, like any good kid should._

_Hope Percy hasn't murdered one of you yet,_  
_Harry_

He puts a friendly note to Mrs Weasley with the one for the twins, tying the two up together, and then he ties all three to Hedwig's leg. "Hey, drop Hermione's off first, and then take the Weasleys', okay? I'm gonna write some to the Malfoys, and I need to write Amelia Bones about recommendations for defence books next year." Hedwig replies with a quiet hoot, giving an affectionate nip to Harry's cheek.

"Boy!" Harry hears Vernon thunder from downstairs, and he runs across the room, sitting down on his trunk. Uncle Vernon throws open the door, staring at Harry furiously. "You're not keeping that up here!" Hedwig hops to the windowsill, and Harry glances at her.

"Well, the thing is, Uncle Vernon, Hedwig's just about to take off some letters. She's going to go to some friends I have, you know, and it's not against the law to withhold my stuff or anything, of course. But the thing is, if my friends were to get these letters from me and then not get any more, or if you were to take my trunk away from me, they might worry. And they might show up at my house to see me, check in on me. In their... Robes." Behind Vernon, Petunia gasps, looking horrified. Vernon growls, and he slams the door shut without saying anything more.

Harry and Hedwig meet each other's eyes. "I think that went quite well," Harry says. "Don't you?" And with that, Hedwig flies from the room.

No one bothers to give him any chores after that. Harry joins the Dursleys for meals, eats quietly and leaves. He does the dishes if he sees some in the sink, but both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon do their best to avoid Harry, and so does Dudley. The reason for the latter might be because Harry takes to reciting gibberish under his breath as soon as Dudley steps into his vicinity, but Dudley avoids him, which is the most important thing.

For the next few days, Harry stays in his room, studying the new books he'd bought and doing his homework. Occasionally, he'll play solitaire, and upon fiddling with the machine for a little while, he'd even managed to get Dudley's abandoned, handheld radio to work, and he listens to the radio. It's really nice, listening to the radio - occasionally the Slytherins would gather around a radio in the common room to listen to a play or an interview, and now and then they played a Weird Sisters record or something, but Muggle music is so different to the wizard stuff, and the radio announcers take their jobs a little less seriously.

He doesn't receive any letters. He's not angry or upset, but he's... Uncomfortable. With the number of letters he sends, how could it be the case that everyone would stop sending him letters at once? His Prophet arrives weekly, just as usual, but there's never any post.

A week and a half into the summer, Harry makes his way downstairs, picking up the phone from its place in the hall. He doesn't know why he isn't receiving any post, but he knows that it isn't right, or normal, and he knows it shouldn't be going on.

"What are you doing?" demands Uncle Vernon.

"Uh, using the telephone. I'm only calling London, so it shouldn't be too expensive, but I can give you the money if that's a problem."

"You can't use the phone," Uncle Vernon says, and Harry watches him for a second.

"You'd rather I walk into town and use a public payphone to call one of my wizard friends?" Uncle Vernon seems to consider this for a second, and then grumbles out a word that might have been "Fine." before he shuffles back into the living room. Harry punches in the number, and then he holds the handset to his ear, leaning against the wall.

"Granger residence," comes the answer.

"Hi, Mr Granger, it's Harry Potter," Harry says. "Is Hermione home?"

"Oh, of course, Harry, give me a moment-" Harry hears Mr Granger call upstairs for Hermione, and he hears the sound of her steps on a stairwell before she comes to the phone.

"Hi, Harry. Are you okay?" Hermione's voice sounds slightly sleepy, despite it being nearly 4 in the afternoon, and Harry expects that for the summer she's started staying up later than healthy to finish books, and he can't help but be amused.

"Uh, yeah, I'm okay, but did you get my letter? I've sent some to you, the twins, Mrs Weasley, and then Draco, Blaise, Theo, a lady I know in the Ministry, Padma Patil, Afifa- I've sent off loads of letters, but I've not had any responses back at all. And I know it could just be a coincidence, because I'm still getting my paper, but..."

"I've sent you a letter, Harry," Hermione says uncertainly, "The twins said they'd sent you one too, and I don't know about the rest, but Padma always writes back really promptly, doesn't she?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "She does."

"This isn't normal, Harry," Hermione says, and Harry sighs into the receiver as Hermione confirms that he's not just being paranoid about this. It's going to be a long, long summer.


	2. Dobby & The Dursleys

The next morning, Aunt Petunia opens up the door to Harry's bedroom, and she stares down at him. Harry concentrates on the two books in front of him.

"What are you doing?" she asks stiffly.

"My Charms professor set us a riddle as a piece of extra homework. We get a mystery prize if can figure out the answer - you can't charm, conjure or do any spellwork if you expect an ingredient to be magically active in the right way in a potion. It's why you have to either prepare ingredients yourself or have a traditionally enchanted set of equipment to prep them for you: ingredients work in different magical ways, but they'd be tainted if you used a spell on them. The picture's just a love potion in a wooden bowl, and there's magic in it, and I can't figure out how." Harry had really just been talking aloud, and now Harry glances up, staring up at his Aunt Petunia. There's something pinched in the expression on her face, her lips pursed. There's a long, pregnant pause between them.

"Sorry," Harry says, "No m-word." Aunt Petunia shakes her head, as if drawing herself abruptly from some reverie - probably about dropping Harry out of a window - and her eyes focus on his face again.

"Vernon has a coworker coming for dinner this evening," she says stiffly, raising her chin and making her long neck look even longer. "You are to remain upstairs, and make no noise. We've not told him you live here, and you aren't to allow him to believe otherwise. You will be utterly silent." Harry stares at her.

"Uh, no, Aunt Petunia, I won't," he says, "Firstly, because I'm a human child, not your pet rabbit, and secondly, because it will benefit you more to tell him I exist. Tell him I'm your disadvantaged, orphaned nephew who the two of you took in out of the goodness of your hearts, and how my debilitating shyness, numerous disorders and extreme uncertainty of strangers leaves me unable to come out and say hello." Aunt Petunia seems to consider this for a moment, and then she looks appraisingly at Harry.

"You won't leave your room," she says firmly.

"I usually don't," he replies, and he lies back on the floor as he stares up at the ceiling. Michael Jackson is on the radio again, and Harry closes his eyes, not really listening to the lyrics of the song as he tries to figure out the little, written exercise. It looks like it should be so simple, but it isn't. A wooden bowl full of liquid, and the caption says that it's full of active magic, but potions aren't actively magical.

Harry groans, and presses his face into the carpet. He suspects Hermione and Draco have already got it, given that they're both at the top of their classes, and Harry can't even hope one of them will send him a clue in the post, because his post isn't coming. He's so bored, he can barely stand it, and he's doing his best not to just read all of his books in one go.

There's a loud pop, and Harry sighs, wondering what the Hell Dudley is doing next door, but then he turns his head, and he freezes where he lies on his back on the floor. There's a house elf in his bedroom. Harry stares at it, wondering for a moment if he'd left something at the school, but this house elf isn't wearing the Hogwarts uniform of an emblazoned tea-towel - it's wearing a grubby pillowcase that dwarfs its tiny form.

"Harry Potter," it proclaims in its sharp, squeaky voice, "Must not return to Hogwarts this year."

"Firstly," Harry says, remaining on the floor and wondering if his life could possibly get more bizarre, "That's a really rude way to introduce yourself. Secondly, Harry Potter will go where he wants. Thirdly, why are you in my bedroom?" The house elf stares at him with its huge eyes, its mouth set into a serious frown, its little, leathery lips trembling. After a moment or two, Harry feels a little bad for being so sharp with the little thing, and he says, "Sorry." He sits up, rubbing over his own face, and he asks, more gently, "Why are you here?"

"I is here to warn Harry Potter, sir. Harry Potter must not go to Hogwarts this year - bad things will be happening this year."

"Bad things happen there every year. They're called exams." The house elf looks astonished for a second, and then wildly shakes his head.

"No, Harry Potter, sir, bad things, terribly bad things."

"What sort of things?" Harry presses, but the house elf lets out a wild noise, bashing his own head into the wall, and Harry grabs him from behind, pulling him away to stop him short. "Dobby can't tell!" the house elf wails. "Dobby shouldn't be here!"

"Look, uh, Dobby, I appreciate your concern and all, but I'm definitely going to Hogwarts no matter what you say. People would miss me if I didn't go back."

"People who don't even write Harry Potter letters?" Dobby asks, looking sneaky, and Harry stares down at him, anger flaring inside him.

"Pretty sure it's illegal to steal people's post, Dobby, even if you are a house elf. You'd better hand it over right now, or I'm going to contact the Ministry." The house elf looks smug.

"And how would Harry Potter sir call the Ministry? Harry Potter is only a young wizard, and mustn't be using his wand for his spells."

"Harry Potter only needs to put his wand out to call the Knight Bus and scream bloody murder about the monster illegally stealing his post and threatening his family, Dobby," Harry says lowly as he clenches his fists at his sides. Why should this happen to him? Why can't he just have a nice summer, writing to his friends, without some bloody house elf stealing his post and trying to convince him not to go to school?

"Dobby would never threaten Harry Potter's family!" the house elf squeaks out, affronted and offended.

"Give me my post!" Harry snaps, and Dobby disappears with another loud pop. Harry sighs, sitting down on the floor again, and he turns off his radio, lying there in the silence of his bedroom. If he listens hard, he can hear Uncle Vernon regaling the Masons with a vaguely racist joke, so he does his best not to listen at all.

\---

"Yeah, so he's stealing my post. I don't know what to do, to be honest - I know I threatened about the Knight Bus, but without going to the Ministry myself, I don't know what I can do about it."

"You'd think they'd have a phone in the place," Hermione complains, "It's 1992."

"I don't think 1992 means the same thing for wizards," Harry points out, and she gives a rueful laugh. There's a loud squeal of tires outside, followed by a scream, and Harry sighs. "Look, sorry, Hermione, I think Dudley's just run something over outside. I'll call you next week."

"Talk to you then, Harry. I'll send a letter and see if it gets through."

"Okiedoke, thanks," Harry puts the phone down, running to the door and pulling it open, but in the doorway he stops short. Dudley is nowhere to be seen - it's only now, having had two seconds to think about, that Harry remembers he's upstairs playing some videogame.

"Hi, Potter," Fred says, grinning down at Harry. He and George are wearing matching corduroy jeans and their F and G jumpers from Christmas, looking completely normal in Muggle attire. "Hope you don't mind-"

"But we're here to kidnap you," George finishes, and Harry smiles up at them, forgetting his annoyance at Dobby, and Dudley, and the Dursleys, and every other thing in Little Whinging that begins with D.

"Oh, brilliant," Harry says. "Come in, guys."


	3. The Burrow

"Boy! Who is it?" comes the demand from the living room, and Harry glances towards the door.

"Some school friends," Harry calls back to Uncle Vernon, "Don't worry, they're here to kidnap me." He says it in a casual, blasé tone, and the response he hears isn't entirely unexpected.

"WHAT-" Uncle Vernon seems to register the idea of Harry leaving the house, and Harry hears the armchair in the living room give a groan of protestation as his uncle sits himself back down in it. "Alright. Off you go." George snorts, following Harry up the stairs, and Harry runs up between him and Fred.

"How did you guys get here?" he asks, and Fred gives an easy shrug of his shoulders. Without robes draping loosely over them, Harry can see that the Weasley twins are actually quite well-muscled, especially around the arms, and he finds himself wondering if wizards have gyms. He can't really imagine Lucius Malfoy lifting dumbbells or doing push-ups, but maybe it's a bit like wearing jumpers, and only less serious wizards have them.

"Knight Bus," Fred answers, and he and George watch as Harry grabs his stuff together, neatly packing the few things that are left out into his trunk. "What, you not unpacked yet?"

"This is my cousin's second bedroom," Harry explains, not looking up from his stuff as he folds it up and chucks it inside. "The chest of drawers and the wardrobe aren't empty." Frowning, George pulls open the wardrobe, and he stares at the contents of the wardrobe. Inside is a messy pile of clothes Dudley had hated for whatever reason, as well as smaller toys and dishevelled packs of Pokémon trading cards. Dudley has asked for them, and they'd been bought for him, but the actual game proved to be too boring for him.

"I've heard of people having guest bedrooms," Fred says, leaning forwards and uncertainly giving a stuffed cat an uncertain poke. "But I've never heard of people having a second bedroom."

"Seems a bit unnecessary," George agrees.

"It's because he has so much stuff," Harry says, shaking his head as he pulls his trunk shut and latches it in place. "It just doesn't all fit in his bedroom."

"Your cousin?" Fred prompts, a slightly evil glint coming into his eye.

"Yeah," Harry answers, "And you're not meeting him." Fred's glint disappears, replaced with shining disappointment, but he doesn't bother to ask why Harry's not going to let him meet Dudley. Hedwig climbs neatly into her cage, settling herself in with a dignified ruffle of her feathers and a quiet hoot, and Harry hands her cage to George, but before he can lift up his trunk Fred takes it off the floor. "Fred, I can do that."

"Ah ah ah," George says scoldingly. " _We're_ kidnapping _you_. That means we do the heavy lifting. You got all your stuff?"

"Yeah," Harry says, and as they come down the stairs, he sees Aunt Petunia in the hall, glaring at the Weasley twins with suspicion. "I'm going with Fred and George, so you guys can be rid of me. See you next summer."

"Hmph," is all Aunt Petunia says, and then she stalks off into the kitchen again. Harry puts out his hand for the Knight Bus, and he watches in excited awe as the bright purple monster of a vehicle comes roaring down the street. He'd seen the photos in _An Introduction to The Wizarding World_ last year, but it's even more ridiculous in real life, and he grins at the conductor as they get on. Fred sets Harry's trunk down next to a brown armchair, but George keeps hold of Hedwig's cage.

"Back to the Burrow, if you would, Stan-my-man," Fred says brightly to the spotty conductor, who squints down at Harry. Harry is glad he hasn't had a haircut for a while - his hair covers his scar quite well.

"Who's that?" Stan demands.

"I'm Tom," Harry says with a straight face, ignoring Fred's snort as he drops himself onto a blue chaise long. The furniture on the Knight Bus is ridiculously mismatched, and as the bus roars fast along the winding roads, the chairs and sofas slide on the floor. It's fabulous, Harry decides.

"You a Muggle?" the conductor asks.

"Yeah," Harry says, "That's why I've got a wand in my hand, and why I'm not freaked out at all by the giant purple bus I'm on." The spotty conductor lets out an irritable huff of noise.

"Can't be too careful," he mutters, and he takes their sickles for the fare before walking down the bus.

"Bit of an idiot, isn't he?"

"Stan Shunpike, his name is," George says, "He was in the same year as Charlie. Charlie thought he was always a right pillock, mind. He was a Ravenclaw, but no one could ever figure out why." Harry laughs, holding tightly to the sides of his chair as it slides suddenly to the left.

"Thanks for this," Harry says seriously. "I think I would have gone mad if I'd been there any longer, not getting any post, and I've discovered why I'm not getting it, by the way. A house elf's been stealing it from me."

"What?" And with that, Harry tells them the whole strange conversation he'd had the night before, and the way the house elf had hurt himself, telling Harry he wasn't supposed to be there. By the time he's done with explaining what had happened, the three of them are stepping off the bus onto a dirt path, George carrying Harry's trunk and Fred cradling Hedwig's cage. Harry undoes it as they walk, and Hedwig flies out, circling in the air above them and stretching her wings.

"If he was hurting himself, he mustn't have had permission to be there," George says, shifting the trunk in his hands. "That's weird, Harry, really weird. Ask Dad about it when we get in, though." They make their way up the hill slowly, and when the house comes into sight, Harry's even more delighted than he was upon seeing the workings of the Knight Bus. The magical world is endlessly exciting, but it's things like these that truly make Harry happy.

"Your house is amazing," Harry says immediately.

"Yeah, tell that to our mum," Fred says, "She keeps complaining about it." As soon as they're inside, George sets a bowl of food out for Hedwig, and Fred turns on the hob, heating up a pan. "Bacon sarnies, eh, lads?"

"You two are really domestic when you're not at school, aren't you?" Harry asks, and George whistles under his breath. "Cooking, feeding the owl. I bet you do your own washing."

"Firstly, you have to do your own washing in this house, else you end up coming down the stairs in nothing but one of Dad's socks, a pair of Ginny's knickers and a leather vest of Bill's," George says, pulling butter out of a cupboard and beginning to slice bread. "Secondly, you're not to brag about our housekeeping skills."

"All the boys will be trying to get us as trophy wives," Fred agrees gravely, "We want them to love us for our bodies, Potter, not our incredible charisma or ability to cook banquets."

"When have either of you ever cooked a banquet?" comes a voice from the doorway, and Harry looks to see Molly Weasley, her hands on her hips as she looks between the three of us.

"When have you ever let us?" Fred asks, brandishing his spatula like a weapon. "We'd do a marvellous job."

"A marvellous job of turning all the guests colours, I'd expect," Molly says, and Fred shrugs his shoulders.

"That's what a banquet's all about, Mum." Harry laughs, and Mrs Weasley looks at him properly, beaming down at him.

"There you are, Harry. Fred and George said they were inviting you down for the day." Harry stares at her for a second, mutely.

"We didn't actually say a day," George says, and Mrs Weasley's head whips to stare at her son. "We didn't specify any time-frame, Mum. You did that."

"And you wouldn't send Harry back to his aunt and uncle, would you?" Fred asks, putting a bacon sandwich on the table in front of Harry. "Look at him, Mum, he's skin and bones - they barely feed him, and they've got him in his cousin's second bedroom. They didn't even care that we were taking him."

"Now, you can't, George, Fred- do they- you did let them know you were going, didn't you, Harry?" Mrs Weasley asks anxiously.

"They were quite glad to see the back of me, to be honest, Mrs Weasley," Harry admits, "But I didn't realize - if I'm an imposition I can just-"

"Oh, don't be silly," she says firmly, her worry fading away like a Vanished teaspoon. "You could never be an imposition, Harry. Do eat up now. Fred is right: you do look a bit skinny." Harry meets Fred's eyes over Mrs Weasley's shoulder, and the older boy gives him a thumbs up and mouths, "Spot on, Potter."

\---

"Why do you never cook for me?" Ginny demands. She's still wearing a thick, pink dressing gown over some flannel pyjamas, and she crosses her arms tightly over her chest as she glares up at her older brother.

"Because you don't eat enough vegetables," Fred answers, "You should be digging in the garden, biting into raw potatoes and gnomes, like a healthy young person. That's what I did."

"You didn't do that!"

"I did so. Ask Mum, she's got pictures somewhere."

"I was alive, you pillock, I'd have seen you!"

"Oh, no, I only did this in the dead of night, when you were asleep. The potatoes are asleep then."

"Potatoes don't sleep!"

"I meant the gnomes." George moves his queenside pawn, and Harry shakes his head as he tries to think of a way to respond.

"Are they always like that?" Harry asks. Ginny had come downstairs about ten minutes ago, and hasn't actually noticed Harry yet, much to his relief. Not that he has anything against her - he hasn't met her yet - but Fred and George had implied she was a bit overly in love with the idea of the Boy Who Lived. She'd asked Fred to make her a bacon sandwich, which he'd immediately and dramatically refused.

"Nah," George answers. "Fred only goes into abstract silliness when Ginny's trying to get him to do stuff. It gets right on her nerves, it does. He'll make her a sandwich once she gets angry enough to leave the room." Harry smiles, telling his kingside rook to move.

"Is it nice? Having siblings? I grew up with Dudley, obviously, but it's not the same." The same jealousy he'd felt when complimenting Hermione's parents makes itself obvious in the pit of Harry's stomach, and he thinks of all the photos he has of his family, all his family who're dead and gone. Would he have siblings, if his mum and dad had lived? Would he have had a little brother, or a little sister?

"It's always been a big household," George admits. "It was Bill, then Charlie, then Percy, then me and Fred, then Ron, then little Ginevra. There's benefits, and there's problems. For example, we could form our own all Weasley Quidditch team, but it's hard to get hot water in the morning. It's easy to ask for homework help from an older sibling, but most of the time the bastard won't give it you."

"Speaking of homework help," Harry says, thinking of the Charms riddle, but George interrupts him.

"Oh, no, no, no. We're going to give you the full Weasley experience, Harry. You're the asker, I'm the bastard."

"Thanks, George," Harry says dryly.

"You're very welcome. Checkmate." Harry stares down at the board.

"Damn."

\---

"Hi, Ginny," Harry says later as they all sit outside around a few wooden tables, enjoying the sunshine. "I'm Harry." He puts out his hand for her to shake, and she stares at it, her eyes horrifically wide, but when Fred nudges her she shakes it, offering an awkward, shy smile. Then, she runs off and into the kitchen, ostensibly to help Mrs Weasley with something.

"I shouldn't worry about it, Harry," Percy says, buttering his toast with an obsessive precision, "I think she's merely slightly awed by your, uh, celebrity, but she'll get used to it. She's horrible to the rest of us."

"That's true," Fred agrees. "She threw George down the stairs one summer when he threatened to cut off all her hair. The first bout of accidental magic we ever saw out of her, and she used it to try and kill one of us."

"Ah, that summer," George says, an expression of fond reminiscence on his face, "I still have the scars. She's a vicious girl, Harry. She'll come out of Hogwarts with severed heads, not trophies."

"You're not going to argue with that, Percy?" Harry asks lightly, and Percy looks up from his toast, apparently surprised to be addressed again. His smile is nice, Harry thinks, and he feels an odd twinge run through him as he watches the older boy draw his hand through his hair. In school, Percy is an officious perfectionist that barely ever talks to Harry if Hermione isn't present, but here he's an officious perfectionist who borders on friendly.

"Oh, I just have to hope none of the heads are mine, to be honest," Percy says lightly. "Of course, she won't be able to reach mine. Fred and George will have to buy step ladders." Fred gasps dramatically, clutching at his chest, and George does the same thing.

"You'd better not have been calling us short just now, Percival," George warns. "We'll kick you off the Quidditch team."

"I'm only on the Quidditch team as a favour to Oliver," Percy points out, pushing his glasses up his nose. "If you kick me out, it'll annoy him more than me." Fred sighs.

"He's right," he says mournfully. "The practices are bad enough as it is." Mrs Weasley comes out of the kitchen with Ginny in tow, then, setting a dozen levitating bowls and plates down on the table, and Harry stares in excited awe at the different things she sets down. There are two pies, a salad, a steaming dish of potatoes-

"This looks great, Mrs Weasley," Harry says.

"Thank you, Harry," she says, and she sits beside Harry. They're all sat around two mismatched tables, and none of the chairs match either, but the Weasleys' garden is huge and bright and decorated all over with flowers, vegetable patches and ornaments, and it's nice to eat outside like this. Mr Weasley runs out of the house, and then he stops short, peering at the table. Harry can see his lips moving as he counts the children he sees, and he tries to keep from laughing as Mrs Weasley says, "We're missing Ron, dear." Mr Weasley goes back to the house, and Harry can hear him yelling Ron's name up the stairs.

"He's sulking because you're here," Fred supplies. "He thinks inviting a poor, orphaned Slytherin to stay with us is a betrayal."

"Fred!" Mrs Weasley says. "Don't call him that."

"It's alright, he calls me much worse things at school," Harry says innocently, and he pretends not to see Fred's look of indignation as Mrs Weasley glares at him even harder.

"Well, you don't mind staying in Ron's room, do you, Harry?"

"Er-"

"Don't worry, Mum," George breaks in. "We've already cleared a space and put the spare bed for Harry in ours." Harry feels relief warm through him. He hopes Ron will calm down a little this summer, without Seamus and Dean to back him up, but he doesn't want to share a bedroom with him for the time being.

Ron lopes out of the house, sitting at the table next to Ginny, and Harry frowns at him. "Have you gotten taller?" he asks, trying not to sound as personally offended as he feels.

"Yeah," Ron replies, and George pats Harry's head.

"Don't worry, Harry. Maybe you'll be as tall as Flitwick one day."

"Shall we start?" Arthur says hurriedly, and Harry shakes George's hand off his hair, reaching for a piece of chicken.

\---

"And this house elf's name was Dobby?" Arthur asks, scribbling down a messy note to himself on a piece of parchment. There's a deep, serious frown on his features, and he'd listened very carefully when Harry had explained the whole thing.

"Do you have like, a registry?" Harry asks, and Arthur shakes his head.

"No, the magical census only takes names of non-humanoid beings living in households, and house elves aren't registered at birth or death," Arthur says, shaking his head, "But I can ask some questions, and there are registries of house elf owners, with how many house elves they have in their possession."

"But he wasn't there on orders," Harry points out, "He kept hurting himself, punishing himself."

"I'm afraid house elves are only really thought about in relation to their owners, Harry," Arthur says quietly, giving a helpless shrug of his shoulders. "But I'll see about having someone get your post back for you, alright?" He gently pats Harry's shoulder, and Harry offers the other man a small smile.

"Thanks, Mr Weasley."

That night, Harry lies on the bed to the side of the room, listening to the quiet chatter of Fred and George as they pour over a set of books a complicated set of notes Harry doesn't even try to understand. So used as he is to the noise of the television downstairs as he tries to sleep, their conversation lulls him into an easy sleep.


	4. The Mysterious Appeal of Percy Weasley

While rescuing Harry from the Dursleys had been Fred and George's idea, by no means did it mean the two of them were going to sit about and entertain him all day. They welcomed Harry into their room and would explain concepts they were experimenting with if he asked about them, but getting one answer almost always meant he had three new questions to ask, and so Harry had gracefully ducked out of watching their experimentation.

Using everything from potions ingredients to hand-picked flowers to stray hair off the family cat, Fred and George seem intent on discovering everything they can over the summer, apparently for fun. It's the sort of complex work that Theodore Nott would enjoy, but it isn't Harry's thing at all, and the twins don't find his disinterest rude. Ginny spends all her time either locked in her room, away from Harry, or in the village, away from Harry; Ron staunchly ignores him if Harry looks at him, and Percy...

Well, Harry likes Percy, but Percy can be very, very dull. At the moment, he's working hard on A History of Magic essay, and he'll talk about his premise to anyone who gets too close.

So, for the time being, Harry helps Mrs Weasley downstairs. He runs errands for her, brings in the laundry, helps her do the dishes - as much as Mrs Weasley uses magic around the house, she always seems to have forty tasks to complete at one time. Harry is sat at the little table in the Burrow's kitchen, organizing Mrs Weasley's numerous recipe cards by main ingredient. Apparently, the last time she'd had a chance to perform this task had been 1981, and she'd added a lot of cards to it since.

"How did you start out sending letters, Harry?" She asks, and Harry glances up.

"I actually wrote you first," he says, stacking another card in the lamb pile. "But I'd read in my book, _An Introduction To The Wizarding World_ , that writing letters was good, so I basically sent out several. People who'd gone to school with my parents, or people I'd seen in the paper. I didn't expect as many people to write me back as they did." Molly smiles down at him, looking fond as she folds up a pair of startlingly orange pyjamas emblazoned with the Chudley Cannons logo.

"Have you read your Prophet this morning, love?" Harry shakes his head, "Well, there's a letter to the editor about the youth of today you might like to have a look at." Mrs Weasley turns the radio up a bit, and Harry listens to Celestina Warbeck warble as he scans recipe cards and sets them aside in neat piles. She's alright, he thinks, but she's no Michael Jackson.

\---

_TO THE EDITOR,_

_Last week, one of the columns in this paper discussed the_   
_tendency of our children in these times to purchase for_   
_themselves cats and kneazles instead of owls, (as well as_   
_mentioning the resurgence of the pet toad), and their_   
_lacking attention in regard to the tradition of writing letters._

_It has been my sad understanding in recent years that young_   
_wizards, witches and like have drawn away from the art and_   
_craftmanship of the letter. Oh, yes, they will send off their owl_   
_order forms and the occasional note on a birthday, but it seems_   
_they have abandoned letter-writing as common practice for_   
_contacting friends and relatives, and most of all for forging new_   
_contacts in the wizarding world. It was a fact I had - morosely -_   
_taken fully into my head._

_These days, with Floo Powder more readily available and_   
_affordable than ever before now that the War is done with, I_   
_falsely believed that I would never receive a letter from a_   
_person below the age of 20 again._

_In the past year, I have been proved quite wrong._

_A young person in attendance at Hogwarts wrote me a letter_   
_in September, asking a very simple question: had I known his_   
_parents before the War?_

_Indeed, I had, as I had known many of the children we lost in_   
_those dark times, even as those children became adults and_   
_had families of their own. I felt the loss of those children as_   
_keenly as I felt that of my own son and daughter-in-law, and_   
_so I shared with this young man what I could - an anecdote,_   
_a few photographs._

_Little did I know that he would be so polite and focused on his_   
_epistolary as to write me back, each week, with such a pleasant,_   
_polite tone and such legible (if not pretty) handwriting. In_   
_this man, I see the devotion, the focus, and the willingness_   
_to hold up tradition I should hope to see in any new_   
_generation._

_I submit that the writing of letters has lost some of its old_   
_splendour, but I disagree with the idea that epistolary is a_   
_dead art: one young man renewed my hope in this regard, and_   
_for that I am most grateful._

_Yours,_   
_Augusta Longbottom_

Harry stares down at the page. Usually, he throws away his copy of the Prophet upon reading it, but he sits for a long time on top of his bed in Fred and George's bedroom, reading through the printed lines again and again. When Mrs Longbottom writes to him, she usually comes across as stern, normally ordering Harry to read this book or attempt this technique, but he's read a letter where she writes like this. The letter to the editor fills him with a warmth that settles in his chest, and he only feels more of a loss for the letters Dobby is keeping back from him.

"Hey, George," Harry asks quietly, "Have you guys got some something to cut this out?" George hands Harry a set of Muggle scissors with **WOOLWORTHS** emblazoned on them, and Harry meticulously cuts the letter out, reaching for the small, brown box in which he keeps all of the photos different people had sent him of his family to place it inside.

It's not a precious photo, but it's a precious something, and Harry wants to keep it forever.

\---

"I'm just going into the village to call Hermione, Mrs Weasley," Harry says, pulling his Weasley jumper over his head. It's the second time he'll be going down into the village, this time on his own, but walking through Ottery St Catchpole is nothing like it is in Little Whinging. People even smile at him as he walks past. "Do you need me to get you anything?"

"You don't need Muggle money for the telephone?" she prompts, frowning at him.

"I've got some, it's alright," Harry assures her. He'd sent a letter to Hermione already, telling her he hadn't received any post yet, but also about his relocation to the Weasleys'.

"If you could just take that basket up to Percy before you go?" Harry glances to the left, and then he grasps at the sides of the wicker washing basket, carrying it quickly up the stairs to Percy's bedroom, and he knocks on the door, balancing the basket on his hip.

"Come in," Percy calls through the door, and Harry pushes the door open, holding up the basket for the older boy to take, but then he stops short in the doorway. Half of Percy's face is covered with a light layer of thick, white shaving cream, and he's using a razor to shave the little bits of ginger stubble growing in on his cheeks and his chin - a Muggle plastic razor, Harry notices, not like Mr Weasley's old-fashioned folding blade. Percy shaves himself in the mirror above the basin in his bedroom, but it's not the shaving that makes Harry stop breathing.

Percy isn't wearing a shirt. Percy Weasley isn't lightly tanned or lightly toned, like the male models Harry'd seen on the covers of Muggle magazines Aunt Petunia always tutted at in Tesco, and nor is his skin clear. Freckles heavily dapple the skin on his arms and his shoulders, and a few of them are visible where his pyjama bottoms hang around his waist, just under his hips. Harry feels a funny twist in his belly, and he feels himself turning red as he drops Percy's basket on the floor. "Going into the village," Harry says awkwardly. "See you later."

He slams the door shut behind him, leaving Percy staring with puzzlement at the door, and he runs down the stairs.

\---

"So, yeah, if you just ask Mrs Weasley about using her fireplace to come in the morning... I mean, unless you'd rather go with the Weasleys?"

"Nah," Harry says, shaking his head and dropping another 10p piece into the coin slot of the telephone. "Mr and Mrs Weasley said I was welcome to come, but I feel like they're really stressed out about going out with Fred, George, Ginny and Ron in tow, let alone adding me to the group as well, so I figure I'll just stay here and get some reading done. I think Mrs Weasley trusts Percy not to burn the house down with me in it." He hears Hermione laugh, and he leans against the wall of the telephone box, staring up at its plastic ceiling. "Hermione," he says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think that Percy's- you know. Attractive?" There's a long pause as Hermione takes in the question and digests it. Harry drums his fingers on the side of his leg.

"Not really," Hermione answers, sounding a bit puzzled. "The twins are much better looking, especially George."

"Especially George, eh?" Harry repeats, "I'll tell him that."

"Oh, shut up," Hermione says, "But Percy's not bad-looking." She seems quick to assure him of that, and Harry smiles a little at how earnest she is - she just wants him to feel normal about it, and it's nice. Hermione's a good friend.

"No," Harry agrees, "He's not."

\---

Harry frowns to himself as he makes his way up towards the Burrow again, thinking to himself. In his hand, he holds a paper bag of sweet letters, and his gaze is concentrated on the ground as he tries to think of what he needs from Diagon Alley and Muggle London tomorrow. He'll have to write down a proper list once he's inside - he'll only end up forgetting half of it, otherwise.

"Harry Potter, sir," says a squeaky voice as he enters the Weasleys' garden, and Harry whips around, staring with wide eyes at the house elf stood on Mrs Weasley's well-trodden garden path.

"Dobby!" he hisses.

"Harry Potter must not return to Hogwarts this year," Dobby says plaintively, stamping one of his little feet onto the ground. Harry's gaze flickers towards the door to the Burrow, which is barely seven feet away, and Harry wonders how fast he could run that distance.

Harry sighs, running his hand through his hair, and then says, "Fine." Dobby's ears perk up.

"Yes?" he says, tennis ball eyes shining with hope and relief. 

"If you give me all my letters, right now, I won't go back to Hogwarts," Harry says gravely. "I'll write a letter to Beauxbatons right now, and ask to go there." Dobby beams at him, looking as if Christmas has come early. That is- well. House elves probably don't get to celebrate Christmas, but still. Dobby conjures a wooden box which is open on top, and Harry stares at the letters inside, nestled with a few parcels, each tied neatly with twine. Dobby stole them, but he treated them very carefully.

"Harry Potter promises he won't go back to Hogwarts?"

"Harry Potter promises no such thing," Harry replies, and he sprints as fast as he can into the Burrow, yelling to Mrs Weasley about the house elf in the garden as if it's the worst thing imaginable.

And given how Dobby's been withholding post with even more focus and strategy than Uncle Vernon over Harry's Hogwarts letter, it sort of is.


	5. Diagon Alley

"Merlin's saggy ballsack, Harry," George exclaims.

"George!" Molly scolds him, but George ignores her completely, staring with Fred at Harry's box of letters. Harry doesn't even know where to start with it - he feels even better than he had at Christmas last year, with so many letters to reply to, different hand-writing his name on the envelopes and different sorts of twine tying the notes together.

"How do you organize it all?" Fred asks, looking horrified at all the post.

"I just keep it in a box at the moment," Harry admits, "I'm going to buy some files when I go into Diagon Alley this week. Is it still alright if I go with the Grangers on Friday, Mrs Weasley?"

"Oh, of course, dear," Mrs Weasley says, obviously trying not to show her relief at not leading Harry around Diagon Alley as well as everyone else. "And the rest of us will go on Sunday." Harry smiles at her, and he walks into the living room, sitting down on the floor with some parchment, his quills and some ink.

He starts with the tied notes, first. Two are from Hagrid asking how his summer's going, and the rest are just from people in his year. He picks out the three parcels, then: one of them is from Honeydukes for a packet of sugar quills he'd forgotten he'd ordered, and another is a new Slytherin scarf. The third one isn't something he'd ordered, though - it's a small, wooden box, and inside is a set of training snitches, nestled with a broom-polishing kit and a set of Seeker's gloves. Harry frowns at the contents, and then he picks out the letter attached.

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_You do not know us, but you do know our daughters, Padma_   
_and Parvati. Padma shared with us the details of what happened_   
_at Hogwarts during the first Quidditch match of the season. We_   
_have been informed as to how the stand began to crumble beneath_   
_you, and how you pushed her back, focusing on getting her to safety_   
_before you focused on yourself._

_We were obviously grateful and relieved, and when Padma returned_   
_from Hogwarts this year and we went to Diagon Alley for her and_   
_Parvati's school things, she expressed the desire to buy something_   
_for you as a token of her gratitude._

_Enclosed is a training Seeker's set - Parvati tells us you're quite the_  
 _devil on a broom, Mr Potter, and while you may not wish to join your_  
 _house team (so our daughters hope, lest you win Slyther_ in the cup),  
 _we hope you might enjoy their use._

_Yours truly,_   
_Ajit & Rachna Patil_

Harry stares down at the page, utterly taken aback, and Percy comes into the room, peering down at him.

"What's wrong?" Harry wordlessly hands him the letter, and as Percy holds the parchment in his hands, reading through the neatly looping lines of script, Harry touches the three snitches in the box. One is half regulation size, and the other gets faster the closer the seeker gets to catching it. The third is a normal snitch, just like you'd use in a real Quidditch match.

"Oh, that's nice of them," Percy says, handing the letter back. "Have you got a broom?" he asks, pointing to the polishing kit, and Harry shakes his head.

"I thought I might get one this year," Percy nods his head approvingly, and he sits down on the sofa, picking up a book and making no more effort as to conversation. Harry sets the Patils' letter aside to reply to first, and then he begins to read through the letters in envelopes. He's distracted as he goes, though, and he keeps glancing back to the Seeker's kit, overwhelmed with gratitude.

He can't believe they'd been so nice.

\---

"Now, just drop in the Floo powder and step into the flames. Make sure you speak clearly now, Harry," Mr Weasley coaches him. "We don't want you ending up in the French quarter of Dublin."

"Is that likely to happen?"

"Probably not, probably not-" Mr Weasley says hurriedly, and Harry shakes his head, throwing down the Floo powder before stepping into the green flames.

"The Leaky Cauldron!" Harry says loudly, and he keeps his elbows in just as Mr Weasley had told him, closing his eyes tightly until he stumbles out of the fireplace. He falls on the floor without any grace at all, his glasses flying over the tile, and he groans as Tom Darcy, the barman, picks them up.

"First time in the Floo, eh, Harry?" he asks lightly, and Harry nods his head, pulling himself up and taking his glasses back. "You'll get better at it. Want me to take a look at that graze?" Harry glances at his right arm, which he'd dragged over the floor on his way down, and sighs.

"Yeah, please, Tom," he says, and when the Grangers come into the pub, Harry is sat at the bar, holding his arm out and letting Tom rub a healing balm that knits the torn skin together, leaving it warm to the touch but intact.

"What did you do?" Hermione asks, concern obvious.

"Oh, he just fell getting out of the Floo, lass," Tom says, "Happens all the time." Tom assures her, and Harry smiles at him, getting down from the stool. "Have a good time."

"Thanks, Tom," Harry says, and with the Grangers, they move into Diagon Alley. They go to Gringotts first, and Harry gets some money out of his vault while the Grangers exchange some Muggle notes for Galleons. Rather than returning straight to the high street, the Grangers let Harry and Hermione lead them into some of the side streets, so they can go through some of the secondhand shops.

Harry is careful to read over the signs over the doors before they go into any of them: he doesn't want to end up going in a shop full of dark magic implements, but for the most part he's aware those shops are in Knockturn Alley, which they're careful to avoid.

Harry and Hermione spends much of the morning exploring the shops, picking up cheap books in their scores, and Harry even finds a few leather photo albums for his pictures. "Oh, Harry, look!" Hermione says at around eleven o'clock. Harry glances away from the enchanted letter box he'd been musing over, coming over. On the shelf, slightly battered but still in their boxes, are three complete sets of Gilderoy Lockhart's complete works.

"Excuse me," Hermione calls across the room, where a pretty older woman, Dawn, is talking with Mr and Mrs Granger, "How much are these?"

"4 knuts apiece," she replies easily, "10 for the three sets together."

"One for you, one for me, one as a present for Ginny?" Harry asks, and Hermione vigorously nods her head, picking up the three boxes and lugging them - not with too much ease - to the glass cashier desk. Harry peers at the letter box a few moments more, and then he picks it up. He sets it on the table, too, but then he stops short.

"Sorry," he asks, "Is that a Cleansweep Six?"

"Yeah," Dawn says, nodding her head and glancing at the broom for a moment before she picks it up, passing it over the desk for Harry to have a look at. "Still works just fine, of course - it's just a bit outdated." This seems to go completely over the Grangers' head, but Harry will explain it later, over lunch. The Cleansweep range is reliable, and even though it's probably a bit of money to spend, it is an investment.

Besides, it's not like he can spend all of his school money on the Nimbus 2001 he'd seen in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies.

"How much?" Harry asks, and Dawn smiles at him. Harry smiles right back.

\---

"Merlin's beard," Harry says as he stops outside of Flourish and Blotts as they exit, and Hermione glances at him quizzically, but he points at the sign tacked up to the inside of the glass, advertising Gilderoy Lockhart's book signing on Sunday.

"God," Hermione agrees, "7 Sickles for the whole set, and on sale. We got a really good deal."

"Not the price," Harry says impatiently, "He wrote me a letter."

"Lockhart did?" Hermione asks.

"Yeah. I didn't realize what his name was, to be honest - he has this big flowy signature, but it's that one," Harry says, jabbing his finger at the gold inked G. Lockhart signed on the portrait photo of Lockhart in the window.

"A famous author's writing you, Harry," Mr Weasley says, waggling his eyebrows, "You truly are reaching high places." Harry laughs, shaking his head, and he thinks about the letter Gilderoy Lockhart had sent him. Now he knows what the man's name is, he'll be able to reply.

The letter had been arrogant nonsense, of course, so he doesn't know if he wants to.


	6. Chaos At King's Cross Station

_Dear Harry,_

_I do hope I can call you Harry, can't I?_

Harry stares down at Lockhart's letter, lips twisting. It feels presumptuous and rude in a way that Harry can't quite define, but all of Lockhart's letters are written in a breezy, self-satisfied way that clearly imply who is, and should be, the centre of the universe.

_I've heard you're quite the little letter-writer, and I_  
_thought I'd gift you with a letter of my own - perhaps_  
_you might keep this one, and look back on it fondly_  
_in a few years!_

_In the coming year, I will be coming to teach Defence_  
_Against The Dark Arts at Hogwarts - do keep it under_  
_your hat, of course! - and I merely wanted to extend_  
_my most HUMBLE offer of tutelage in advance, should_  
_you like to take some benefit of my expertise._

_I'm sure once you're all grown up, we might work in the_  
_same field, you and I - perhaps we might even do an_  
_interview together!_

_Looking forward to meeting you,_  
_G. Lockhart._

At least, that is what Harry now knows the signature is meant to say: in actuality, it's an unrecognizable swirl of G and L, followed by a scribble that's supposed to be the missing "ockhart".

"I don't want to reply," he says, putting his forehead to the wood of the kitchen table and hoping irrationally that the letter will just go away. "It's so- it's such a weird letter to send, and he's obviously a tosser." Fred puts out his hand, and he and George read it together.

"Definite tosser," they agree together, and without any more pageantry, Fred scrunches up the piece of parchment and throws it in the fireplace. "If he asks, your post was stolen by a house elf, and you didn't get that one back," he suggests. Harry watches the parchment scrunch further, blackening at the edges, and it makes him feel better to see it burn.

"Yeah," George agrees. "Obviously Dobby was so desperate to touch something written by Gilderoy Lockhart he kept it, and he sleeps with as a bedsheet each night. Come on, get up, you lazy snake. Let's go play Quidditch."

"Us and you versus Percy, Ron and Ginny," Fred agrees, and Harry's decision is made up easily: he stoppers his ink bottle and pulls on his gloves to play.

\---

"Are you sure we're all going to fit in a Ford Anglia, Mr Weasley?" Harry asks skeptically, and he pats Harry's back, giving him a wink.

"Oh, yes, Harry," he says, nodding his head, and he picks up Harry's trunk to put in the car first. Harry watches, fascinated, as Mr Weasley slides the trunk inside - the car is enchanted to have a ridiculous amount of space on the inside, and he grins. "Now, you're not to share about the car around school, alright? It's, ah, not strictly legal." Harry suppresses the urge to snicker.

"It's okay, Mr Weasley. I cover illegal stuff for Fred and George all the time."

"Oh, good," Arthur says, and then, "Wait, Harry, what-"

"I'll be right back, Mr Weasley!" Harry interrupts brightly, and he heads into the house. It's a little past half eight, and Ron and Percy are eating their breakfasts (with varying degrees of accuracy, judging by the red sauce on Ron's shirt collar) as everyone else runs back and forth. Treacle, the Weasley's ill-tempered tabby, is running around the house with a black jumper on, and Harry can only assume that it's Ginny's, given that she's in pursuit. Fred and George are on their hands and knees in front of the fireplace, both of their heads shoved into the flames as they talk loudly and quickly with someone on the other side.

In the midst of the chaos, Mrs Weasley leans against the kitchen side, drinking her tea and apparently doing her best to ignore everything going on around her. "Would you start taking everyone's trunks outside for me, Harry dear? Just leave Ginny's for now: she's trying to find her jumper." Harry watches as Treacle desperately flees upstairs, Ginny scrambling after her.

"Okay," Harry assents, and he drags Percy's trunk out to Mr Weasley.

\---

"Come on, let's get onto the platform," Percy says briskly, adjusting his prefect badge where it stands proudly on his chest, pinned to a red jumper. He couldn't be more irritating in this moment than if he clapped his hands. "Ginny, you first."

"Yes, sir!" Ginny says, rolling her eyes, and she runs forwards, hitting the wall with a loud, harsh smack of sound. She lets out a cry of pain, and Percy and George run forwards, pulling her up. A graze bleeds a little on her left arm, and she'd hit her jaw hard as she'd fallen down, cutting the skin.

Muggles are glancing at Weasleys, and Harry sees Mr and Mrs Weasley share an uncertain look: they're a big family anyway, but given all their trunks and the owls they've got with them as well, they don't really look all that mundane. Arthur moves forwards as George and Percy pull Ginny towards Mrs Weasley. She's crying a little bit - not out of pain, Harry doesn't think, but just at the sudden shock of hitting the wall instead of passing through it.

Harry recognizes people coming into the station, some of them in clothes like the Weasleys are wearing, but others in full-on robes.

"Merlin's beard," Arthur whispers as he comes away from the wall between the two platforms. "Molly, we need to go."

"What? But we have to catch the express-"

"The enchantment on the wall's been dispelled," Arthur says, "Look, take your owls, and go outside. Percy, I need you to take the children to the Leaky Cauldron, and if you see other Hogwarts students as you go around, tell them to do the same. I need to go to the Ministry. Molly-"

"I'll stay here," she says, nodding her head, "And point people to the Leaky Cauldron. What do you think's going on here?"

"I don't know," Arthur admits, "But it's nothing good. Go on, Percy, take them now." Percy steps back, and all of them follow him, too surprised to do anything else. George carries Hermes, Percy's owl, and Harry holds Hedwig carefully as they walk on.

"Come on, now, there's hardly anything to worry about," Percy says briskly, but not convincingly. He talks quickly and quietly with the parents he sees as they move out of the station, and by the time they're walking through London it isn't just the six of them but Daphne Greengrass, looking as icy as ever, Francis Drummond, who seems to be hoping that fifth year is the year he ceases to exist, and Dean Thomas, who talks quietly and concernedly with Ron.

"Has this happened before?" Harry asks. Fred and George's faces are solemn, and they shake their heads.

"Dad said one time King's Cross was attacked, during the war, but everyone could still get to the platform and get on the train. What time is it, half-ten? Basically everyone would have been going in right now, so this is a proper mess," Fred says.

"Oi!" George says. "Lee!" A black boy lugging his trunk on one shoulder turns, and he sees them, waving. "Come here, you idiot!" Lee Jordan runs over, and Harry can't help but laugh a little at the picture of it, the way he holds his trunk so easily - the Muggles must all think it's empty.

"Daphne, you okay?" Harry asks, and she gives a small incline of her head.

"I could perhaps be better," she admits. "Given that I'm currently following the leadership of a Weasley." Harry decides not to respond to that, and they walk in silence until they get to the Leaky Cauldron - Percy ushers them all in, and one inside, he stops short, as if faced with his true nemesis.

"Prefect Lanjwani!"

"Prefect Weasley," Afifa returns, arching an eyebrow. "Slytherins, with me. Gryffindors, stay with Prefect Weasley. You, first year Weasley, you stay with your brother too." She turns back to Percy and says, "We're splitting into houses for the moment, and Mr Darcy's letting us all wait in an event room. I believe your father is currently spreading the word, but this is chaos, Weasley, I don't know what we're going to do to get to the school." Percy inhales, shaking his head.

"Is Penelope here?"

"Clearwater? Yeah, she's downstairs in the room. Come on." Afifa and Percy talk in a quiet, urgent tone: there's none of the usual house rivalry or jabbing back and forth, and that fills Harry with more trepidation than anything else. He sees Hermione sat on her trunk to the side of the room, and he comes over, sitting beside her.

They sit in silence for a long while - Harry doesn't want to speculate, not when there's a thick, worried ball in his belly and the clock is ticking towards eleven o'clock. When Afifa and Percy walk past them again, Harry catches their attention.

"Afifa?" Harry asks, and they both turn, looking down at him and Hermione.

"Yes?"

"They'll be able to get it fixed, won't they? We're still going to be able to catch the Express?" Afifa presses her lips together, glancing at Percy, who shakes his head.

"You've read _Hogwarts: A History_ , haven't you?" Percy asks, and Harry and Hermione nod their heads. "Do you recall the passage as to the safety of the Hogwarts Express? It leaves at its exact time, and can't be stopped or slowed from leaving the station. It can take emergency stops en route, but not here in London. Besides, there's no possible way Ministry workers can replace the enchantments to reach the platform whilst Muggles are using the station as usual - it would cause utter chaos."

"We'll still get you all to Hogwarts," Afifa says, "But it won't be on the train." Hermione drums her fingers on her own knees as they walk away.

"What's going on, do you think?" she asks Harry, and he shakes his head. The room is full of anxious Hogwarts students, each talking quietly with each other - no one is laughing or joking, and even Fred, George and Lee are settled to the very edge of the wall, talking very seriously to each other.

"Whatever it is," Harry says, "It can't be good."


	7. The Lockhart Problem

"Quiet down!" says McGonagall as she enters the room, and the hush that spreads through the students gathered in the huge event room is sudden: almost immediately they're all turning to look uncertainly to Professor McGonagall, who looks like she's had a difficult day so far. It's nearing twelve o'clock, and most of them are all sat down on the floor or on top of their trunks, talking together. "Ministry workers are currently restoring the wall at King's Cross - you've missed the train, but you'll be able to catch it next year."

"How are we going to get to school this year?"

"Five points from Gryffindor, Mr Jordan."

"We're not even there yet!"

" _Ten_ points." Lee Jordan dramatically gasps, looking more indignant than honestly offended. "To answer Mr Jordan's question, we're currently awaiting a license for Professor Flitwick to create portkeys for you to reach the castle."

"Why can't we just Apparate to Hogsmeade?" asks a seventh year Ravenclaw.

"Those of you with Apparition licenses may Apparate to Hogsmeade, if you so choose, but we cannot sidealong Apparate with so many people in so short a time. Moreover," McGonagall says, cutting through the next expected interruption, "There are only a few fireplaces connected to the Floo Network, and as all four of them are in the private quarters of Hogwarts staff members, none of them will be used."

"Are you sure? I'd like to see Snape's bedroom!" George says, making people laugh around the room.

" _Professor_ Snape," McGonagall says loudly, "Does not have a Floo connection, Mr Weasley, but I will pass on your regards." There are a few scattered laughs around the room, but her momentary good humour fades away, and McGonagall glances around the room, her expression sober. "First years will still experience their traditional arrival by boat, and the coaches will be waiting for the rest of you at the Hogwarts gates, once you make your way in. The Hogwarts house elves will be bringing you your lunch soon. If all prefects could come forwards and tell me which students are missing from the register."

Harry sighs, rubbing at his eyes. He and Hermione sit together on her trunk, cross-legged and back to back, and Harry can feel the thick cushion of her hair against the back of his neck. Beside them, Hedwig perches on top of her cage. Harry had let her out an hour ago, but she'd elected to stay rather than flying onto the castle.

"Do you think I'll ever get to have a normal year at school?" Hermione asks.

"Not as long as you're friends with me," Harry promises, and she laughs a little. "I wonder if Mr Weasley got all our trunks to the school yet."

"Probably. But it's not like we can commandeer the Knight Bus for the morning."

"Why not?" Harry asks.

"Because, Harry," Hermione says, "We're in the wizarding world now. Besides, they did that before for a big Ministry event, didn't they? It was in Ministerial Insight, and instead of going to London they ended up in the middle of the Irish Sea." Harry thinks of the spotty, stupid conductor he'd met on the Knight Bus. It makes complete sense, even if he doesn't remember the particular part in the book.

\---

Harry groans as he lets go of the portkey, and Theodore Nott pats his back as they pass the used portkey to Hagrid, who is collecting them all in a wide, wicker basket. Harry's navel feels like it's approximately six feet away from his body right now, and it's not at all a pleasant sensation.

The portkeys had been organized for groups of no more than five, and Harry had gone with Theodore, Blaise, Crabbe and Goyle.

"They're not my favourite either," Nott says lightly, and Harry breathes in, standing up straight. The sensation soon fades, and Harry shakes his head, glancing around for the carriages, but then he stops short as he watches a girl appear with some other Ravenclaws, laughing. She tosses back her hair, which is black and glossy, and Harry finds himself stopped short, staring at her.

"Uh, Harry?" Blaise prompts, and Harry tears his gaze away, feeling the same strange twinge he had when he'd seen Percy shirtless at the Burrow.

"Who's that girl? The Ravenclaw?" Blaise rolls his eyes, and Theodore shakes his head, shoving Harry towards the carriages.

"That's Cho Chang, you idiot. She's the Seeker for the Ravenclaw team."

"She's pretty," Harry says awkwardly as he climbs into the carriage, and the other two boys shake their heads exasperatedly as Crabbe and Goyle pull themselves up too. "Don't you think?"

"Sure," Blaise says, "But none of us are staring at her with our mouths wide open like a peasant looking upon a noblewoman of old."

\---

When they arrive in the castle, it's four o'clock, and there are about thirty students on the Hogwarts Express for the rest of them to wait for. After changing into his robes, Harry makes his way towards the staircases to go and find Hermione, but is stopped short with a loud, joyous, "Harry!"

Harry turns his head, staring in honest disbelief at the man before him. Gilderoy Lockhart is a little under six feet, his blond hair styled into a boyish set of curls that don't really suit him; his teeth are whiter than ivory, and he wears a positively luminescent set of bright purple robes, their lining made of an extravagant pink.

"Sorry, sir," Harry says hurriedly, "I'm not Harry, I-"

"Nonsense!" Lockhart proclaims delightedly, clapping Harry on the back. "So good to finally meet you, young man! I sent you a letter, of course, but no doubt you were too shy to respond."

"Uh, no," Harry says, "A lot of my post was nicked over the summer. I guess I never got it."

"Ah, no trouble, no trouble - you see, Harry, I merely wished to offer you a position as my mentee, my protegé, if you will," Lockhart says flamboyantly, tossing his hair.

"I'll have to think about it," Harry says, and before Lockhart can say anything else he runs into the next room, making his way as quickly as he can up to the Fat Lady to ask for Hermione.

\---

"Well," Harry says as he drops face-first onto his bed, half-heartedly kicking off his shoes. "That was a disaster."

"It didn't go well, did it?" Draco agrees, untying the fastenings of his robes as frowning deeply. "Who do you think was behind the thing at the train station?"

"Don't know. Seems a bit low-key for Voldemort."

"Harry!" Draco hisses.

"Sorry, sorry. Seems a bit low-key for You-Know-You," Harry corrects himself, feeling more than silly. Hermione won't say the name herself, but at least she doesn't flinch every time he says it. "Maybe it was people protesting the use of a Muggle railway station? I don't know, it just seems random." Dumbledore had reiterated that the platform would be just fine next year, and that the Hogwarts Express had ran just fine, but he had just said some unknown party had caused the trouble, and that the Ministry was searching for the culprit. "They must have been powerful."

"Yeah," Draco agrees, pulling on his pyjama top as Harry begins to change into his own night clothes. "That'll probably be the end of it, though. It's not like they killed anyone."

"That doesn't mean they didn't mean to," Harry replies darkly, and he brushes the spine of _Catastrophes of the Recent Past_ , which he'd unpacked with the rest of his books earlier that afternoon. It's one of the books Athene Greengrass had sent him vouchers for last year, and he thinks he'll re-read a little of it tonight. He's read most of Lockhart's books, which are vapid but simply written, and he doesn't want to subject himself to the last two just yet. "D'you think he'll be a good teacher? Lockhart?"

"My parents think he's useless," Draco answers, shrugging his shoulders, "But Father still sponsored his appearance at Flourish and Blotts."

"That's about money," Harry says, "Why would Lucius let him come to Hogwarts if he thinks he'll be useless?" Harry asks, setting his shoes under the bed.

"He's a governor, Harry, not a God."

"Tell him that," Harry retorts, and Draco throws a pillow at him, making Harry laugh as he catches it.

"It's hard to get Defence Against The Dark Arts teachers here," Draco says, "They say the position's jinxed." He puts out his hands and catches his pillow as Harry throws it back. "Maybe he's hoping Lockhart will get killed."

"You don't sell the cash cow for beef, Draco," Harry replies. Draco stares at him.

"What?" Harry laughs, lying down on the bed. "I wish you wouldn't use all these ridiculous expressions."

"Good night, Draco," Harry says, blowing out his candle. "Don't let the bed bugs bite."

Draco's pillow, this time, hits him in the back of the head, and Harry refuses to give it back.


	8. Snakes And Whispers

"I know he's a bit, well, arrogant, but look at all the things he did in his books!" Hermione says, looking absently at the animated image of Gilderoy Lockhart on the cover of Magical Me, which she'd apparently ordered by owl. The collected sets they'd bought hadn't included the autobiography, a new publication, and frankly, Harry is glad. If he owned a copy, he'd feel obligated to read it.

"He hasn't taught us anything yet, though," Harry maintains, "And he's so self-centred. Hermione. If Professor McGonagall set a bloody test asking us her favourite colour and what sort of knickers she likes, we'd be out in a second."

"He never asked us what sort of knickers he likes," Hermione argues, looking horrified at the very thought, "That's not fair."

"You just think he's attractive, that's the only reason-"

"That's not the only reason!"

"It's the only reason! You see his lovely hair and his pretty face and you just swoon-"

"I've never swooned in my life, Harry, and I'm not about to-" There's a quiet cough, and Hermione and Harry irritably turn around. Draco has his hands in his pockets, and is looking casually at the both of them. If he wanted to look any more innocent, he'd probably start whistling, and Harry glares at him. Even if Draco isn't showing it, it's obvious he's amused at having found Harry and Hermione arguing about something.

"Sorry to interrupt your heated discussion," Draco says in an oily voice, "But I want some help with the Lockhart homework."

"Define help," Hermione says, raising her eyebrows and crossing her arms over her chest.

"I want the answers," Draco says, and Hermione tuts at him.

"I'm not going to help you cheat," she says disapprovingly, shaking her head, but Harry considers this, leaning his elbow on the table and looking at Draco thoughtfully. If it were usual homework help, Harry would just help him out, but giving Draco the answers to Lockhart's new test won't stop him from learning anything important, and taking into account that none of the teachers will punish him for telling Draco Lockhart's favourite colour...

"I will," Harry says, "But if I tell you what the answers are - just what the answers are, mind, I'm not going to highlight the passages in your books for you - you have to teach me something." Draco arches an eyebrow, and Hermione glances between them.

"Your house is very strange," she says, "I hope you realize that." Harry sighs.

"The Ravenclaws do this too, Hermione. It's not our fault Gryffindors have no concept of the quid pro quo." Hermione snorts, and she looks between them, expectant as Draco seems to think of what sort of knowledge he can offer in return. Then, he reaches into his inside pocket, pulling out the notebook he uses for his spells, and then he leans over, taking a piece of parchment and copying out some wand diagrams and some spell instructions. His notebook is then returned to his inner pocket.

Harry and Hermione both lean over, looking at the paper curiously. "Snake Summons? That sounds like high-level transfiguration."

"I can do it," Draco says defensively, "And this counts as knowledge."

"Prove it works," Harry says, and Draco stares at him. Harry, in truth, believes that Draco can cast the spell, or he wouldn't have copied it out from his little book for Harry and Hermione - he's not stupid, and he wouldn't try and pass off a spell as real without it being so. But Draco didn't know this spell at the end of last year, which means he must have learned it over the summer, and he wouldn't cast a spell for the first time in mixed company.

"What?" Draco says, indignant.

"Prove you can do the spell, and that it works, and I'll give you the answers."

"For Merlin's sake, Potter-" Draco pulls out his wand, and Harry's suspicions ae confirmed: Draco does cast magic at home, likely with his parents' tutelage. It doesn't really surprise him, but it's nice information to file away. "Serpensortia!" Harry watches Draco's wand movement as he casts the spell, and then he watches the burst of yellow light from the end of the wand as the snake bursts forwards.

In hindsight, this was probably a bad spell to request he perform in the middle of the Great Hall.

"What the Hell are you doing over there?" comes a sharp reproach from the other side of the room, and Draco, Hermione and Harry hurriedly stand on top of the Great Hall's bench as they stare down at the snake. It's perhaps three feet long, and it looks a bit angry about its situation. Francois Richelieu runs over, and he stops about six feet away, staring at the serpent, which is now coiling in on itself, raising its head and looking threateningly around the room. The Gryffindors further up the table begin to inch away. "Do you know the spell to Vanish it?" Frank asks Draco, and after a short pause, Draco rapidly, mutely, shakes his head.

Frank calls for one of the Ravenclaw prefects to run and get a teacher, and Harry focuses on the snake. Its head is weaving from side to the other, its tongue darting from its mouth every few seconds, and Harry doesn't think he's imagining it when he hears it say, **_"Where?"_**

 _"This is Hogwarts,"_ Harry whispers back, barely aware of the way he draws out the sibilance in the words, and the snake turns to stare at him with its small, amber eyes. _"Can you talk?"_

 _"Of course I can talk,"_ the snake says loftily, _"We are not as **dim-witted** as you upright pigs."_ Harry's never been called an upright pig before: the insult strikes him as slightly ill-suited.

_"Uh, can you, you know? Leave?"_

_"I was **summoned** here."_

_"Yes, but it's much nicer outside. There are mice, rats-"_

_**"Rats?"**_ repeats the snake, tilting its head to the side and seeming pleased at the idea, _"Take me there."_

_"Can't you just, you know, go yourself? It's just out of that door and then through the next one."_

_"No,"_ it says petulantly, _"Too far."_ Frank, Hermione and Draco are all staring at Harry as he very slowly, very cautiously, steps off the bench. Harry creeps forwards, making his way closer to the snake.

"Potter!" hisses Francois, "What do you think you're doing? That's an adder!"

"It's fine!" Harry says quickly, and he kneels down, putting out his arms, " _If you bite me, I'm going to drop you in the lake_ ," he promises, and the snake nods its head in a gesture of assent, slithering forwards and coiling itself slowly around the length of Harry's arm. Harry doesn't feel scared any more: he likes snakes, and this one isn't quite as intimidating now he has it in his hands.

Harry walks quickly into the entrance hall and outside, leaning down to let the snake drop itself into the nearby bushes, and the snake doesn't so much as thank him as it disappears into the underbrush. Harry makes his way back into the Great Hall, and everyone in the room seems to be staring at him. There are maybe twenty students dotted along each of the tables, and Frank comes forwards, grabbing Harry by the collar and hauling him into the entrance hall again. Draco runs to follow them, holding both his own bag and Harry's.

"What? I couldn't just bloody leave it there, could I?"

"You spoke to it," Frank says, pulling him bodily down the corridor, and Harry tries to pull away from the older boy's grip, but Francois keeps tight hold of him.

"So? What else was I meant to bloody do?" The prefect holds tightly to the scruff of Harry's neck as he makes his way towards the potions classroom. Mercifully, Snape's classroom is currently empty, and the man himself is in his office, making disparaging comments in red ink on the essays stacked before him.

"Professor Snape," Francois says, and the potions master glances up, arching an eyebrow as he glances from Harry to Draco.

"What now?" he asks, curling a lip in disgust.

"Potter's just released an adder onto the grounds," Francois says. Snape stares at Harry, black eyes boring into Harry's own.

"I couldn't leave it in the Great Hall!" Harry says as a defence of himself.

"Why, Potter, was there an adder in the Great Hall?"

"Draco summoned it." Snape's gaze flickers to Draco, who shrinks slightly under his Head of House's gaze.

"Because Potter told me to!"

"Would you jump off a bridge if I told you to?"

"Shut up, both of you!" Francois says loudly, finally letting Harry go. "But the reason I brought Potter here is because he's a Parselmouth." Snape's expression changes just slightly, and he frowns at Harry.

"I'm not a Parselmouth," Harry says, "I'm not Slytherin's heir or something, am I?"

"Did you speak to the snake, Potter?" Snape asks briskly.

"Of course I did. How do you think I convinced it not to bite me?" Snape breathes in, and then he pinches the bridge of his nose, looking like he's doing his level best to remain calm.

"Potter," Snape says finally, in a low, even tone. "If you were speaking to the snake, and it understood you, you were speaking Parseltongue."

"I was speaking English!"

"No, Potter, you weren't," Francois says, and Harry stares up at him. "From what we know of Parseltongue, it's not like Draco and I speaking French. You might have heard yourself and the snake speaking in English, but all the rest of us heard were you hissing back and forth." Harry is silent, staring into the middle distance. He'd read the history of Salazar Slytherin, about the mythical Chamber of Secrets and about how he could supposedly speak to snakes, but...

"Five points from Slytherin for performing dangerous magic in the halls without supervision, Mr Malfoy."

"Aren't you going to do anything, sir?" Francois asks, and Snape stares at him, seeming mildly taken aback by the question.

"Do anything?" he repeats.

"About Potter."

"What is it you suggest I do, Prefect Richelieu? Gag the boy? Banish every snake from the castle? Call in the press?" Frank falters, and Snape returns to his desk, sitting down once more and dipping his quill in his pot of red ink. There's a pause as the three of them stand in the doorway, staring at their head of house, and after a few moments, Snape glances up at them, "Get out."

\---

"Is this bad?" Harry asks quietly once they get into the common room, and Malfoy lingers to hear Frank's response. Francois had looked worried all the way back to the Common Room, and now he looks at Harry seriously before he sighs.

"It will be all over the school that you were involved in the summoning of a snake, and that you then talked to it. Parseltongue is an exceedingly rare skill, Harry, and virtually all Parselmouths are descended from Slytherin: people think of Parselmouths as dark magic practitioners as soon as they know what they are."

"It'll be all over the school by now," Harry says, and Frank nods his head, patting Harry's shoulder.

"Stay in here for now, okay? We'll see how the rest of the houses are at dinner, and then we can respond from there." Harry goes into the common room proper, and, seeing Harry's pale features as he walks past, he hears the other Slytherins ask Frank what happened. Harry stays in his dorm for a little while, taking the time to unpack the books and clothes from his trunk he hadn't yet done, and then he walks out into the common room again.

"Oh, cheer up, Potter," Blaise Zabini says as soon as he comes in, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "Maybe you sound smarter in Parseltongue."

"Shut up!" Harry says immediately, shoving the other boy, but by no means is the ribbing upsetting: it's actually comforting that Blaise is still making fun of him, even when it's about this.

"Come on, then," Theodore says, "You can't discover you're a Parselmouth and not demonstrate for us."

"He's right, you know," says Daphne Greengrass, "We'd just be terribly upset if you were to deny us a little whimsy."

"I didn't know whimsy was your thing, Daphne," Harry says, and she gives a little shrug of her shoulders, tossing her hair. "I don't think I can do it without looking at a snake - I've done it before. I set a boa constrictor on my cousin once."

"Well, he's just gone up rather a lot in my estimation," Blaise says in a light, conversational tone, "Nothing like snake-based attempted murder to bolster one's friendship."

"I didn't try and kill him," Harry says, pushing the other boy to sit down as he drops onto the arm of one of the green, leather sofas in front of the fireplace. "I just scared him a bit." He glances around for a good likeness of a snake in the common room, of which there are a fair few, and he settles on the Slytherin crest mounted over the nearest fireplace. The snake is carefully painted on the wood of the shield, and Harry focuses it on it, imagining its coil moving and shifting as he looks at it. " _This is me speaking Parseltongue_ ," he says, and the Slytherins around him each laugh and "ooh", nudging each other. Harry knows there are other people dotted around the common room craning their necks and straining their ears to listen, but for the time being he ignores them.

That is, until there's a quiet grind from the wall, and a large piece of stone beside the fireplace slides to the right, disappearing into the wall beside the chimney flue: a dark passageway is left open, letting cold air draught into the room, and the six of them stare, wide-eyed, at the opening.

"Go get Professor Snape, Blaise," says Afifa, coming up and putting her hands on Harry's shoulders, keeping him in his place on the sofa. Blaise all but scrambles towards the common room exit as the other Slytherins begin to gather around, all of them leaning to try and stare into the new hall that's opened up. It's dark, but Harry thinks he can see unlit torches lining its walls. "What did you say, Potter?"

"Nothing. Nothing, I just said that I was speaking Parseltongue, it was just so they could hear-"

"Shush," Afifa says sharply, squeezing his shoulder. "It's fine. They find secret rooms all the time."

"When was the last time someone found an official secret room?" Harry asks, glancing up at Afifa. Other Slytherins lean to watch her face, and Afifa breathes in. There's a short pause.

"Shut up, Potter."

"Yes, Ma'am."


	9. The Empty Library

Snape comes into the common room with Blaise a few minutes later, and he tells the prefects to help him move the sofas closest to the new entrance out of the way, forcing the students back a little. "Come away from this part of the common room, if you will," Snape orders briskly, and the Slytherins move back by about two feet, but as soon as Snape turns to glance into the little hall, all of the students step back to where they were before.

He doesn't bother to correct them.

The Slytherin entrance opens once more, and Harry glances at McGonagall and Dumbledore as they enter the common room, the both of them looking rather harried. Despite McGonagall's Gryffindor house, Harry can't help but think that in her deep green robes and similar hat, she matches the Slytherin common room's colour scheme perfectly. He wouldn't be stupid enough to say so, of course, but he's allowed to think it.

"Incendio," Dumbledore casts quietly, lighting the torches on the inside of the little corridor, but Harry can only see two torches in the little hall before it takes a sharp left turn: without actually sticking his head into the hall, he can't see what it leads into.

The Slytherins reluctantly move to sit down around the common room as the three teachers disappear into the new room. Homework lies uncompleted on tables, students pretending to work on it as they listen carefully for whatever sound they can glean from the quiet echoes of McGonagall's voice; more than a few of them curse Snape and Dumbledore's respective tendency to speak in barely more than a whisper.

Harry sits with Afifa and some of the other seventh years, and while they're making an attempt to talk about a new shop opening on an offshoot of Diagon Alley, one with a 17+ ageline on its entranceway. Harry would normally want to find out anything he could about a shop like that, but for the time being he's as distracted as the seventh years are.

When Dumbledore finally comes out of the room, followed by McGonagall and Snape, the Slytherins are all on the edges of their seats, leaning right forwards and watching Dumbledore in the most rapt silence he's likely ever heard from Slytherin house.

"Now then," Dumbledore says pleasantly, putting his hands together, "I believe it is time for us to go to the great hall for dinner, children."

"But, Professor," Afifa says, "What is it?"

"Time for dinner," Dumbledore repeats in a surprisingly kind and grandfatherly tone, given the number of eyes boring into him. The Slytherins mill about in their places, making their reluctance known.

"Go," orders Snape, and they each move towards the door. It would normally be proper etiquette to allow staff to lead the students from the common room, but McGonagall and Snape purposefully hang back, presumably to make sure no one tries to stay in the common room and come to dinner late. Harry moves along with the other Slytherins, and he waves to Hermione as he comes into the hall.

"Are you okay?" she mouths at him, furrowing her brow.

"Yeah. No detention," Harry mouths back, and she looks surprised, but gives him a thumbs up before she turns back to her conversation with Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown. Judging by their expressions, Hermione is enjoying it more than they are - Harry guesses they started out talking about Lockhart, and that Hermione got off track talking about actual defence against the dark arts.

"Excuse me!" says a voice behind him, and Harry turns, glancing down at the younger boy. His robes are a little overlarge for him, partly because he's so skinny, Harry suspects, and the little Gryffindor is wide-eyed and looking up at Harry. "Aren't you Harry Potter?"

"No," Harry lies, "I'm Draco - Harry's over there-"

"No, no, you're Harry Potter, I can see your scar!" he says excitedly, and it's only now that Harry sees the camera around Colin's neck. "Is it true that you're a Parselmouth? Does your scar ever hurt? Could I get your autograph? Do-"

"What's your name?" Harry asks loudly, cutting through the other boy's nonsense, and the kid stares up at him.

"Colin! Colin Creevey!"

"Go sit down, Colin," Harry says.

"But-"

"No. You want to talk to me, you don't do it at dinner," Harry says clearly, and he turns around, sitting beside Blaise and adjusting his collar, feeling more than a little bit uncomfortable. Creevey's only a year younger than him, but the awe he'd been directing at Harry had been... Uncomfortable. He scurries off to the Gryffindor table, sitting with some of his first year friends, and Harry shakes his head.

"I thought you liked attention," Theodore says in a teasing tone, nudging him, and Harry shakes his head, pressing his lips together.

"Attention's fine, but I want friends and allies, Theodore. What sort of idiot wants blind followers?" There's an uncomfortable silence, and Harry realizes the unfortunate nature of his phrasing all at once, a thick, sick feeling sinking down and into his stomach. For once, he's grateful when Dumbledore starts to talk.

"Eat, everyone. The next few days will be interesting for you." With that cryptic message, Dumbledore sits down, and food appears on the table. Harry eats in mostly silence, listening to the other second years theorize as to the new room; there's quiet talk all up and down the Slytherin table, and it's a nice distraction. Whenever Harry glances back towards the other house tables he can see groups of students watching him and whispering about him, whispering about how he's a Parselmouth.

And that's without even knowing what he'd unlocked in the common room.

\---

"Oh," Harry whispers as Afifa pushes him forwards and into the room.

It's a broad room with eight neat, symmetrical walls, and the octagon is continued in the ceiling, where eight sheets of black glass are drawn into a centrepiece. The glass shines in the light from the torches that have now been lit, reflecting it down again. It's a modest library, with four of its walls holding floor-to-ceiling shelves, and in the middle of the room is another torch, four shelves spanning out from it in a plus sign.

The shelves are only three feet high, and along their surface is a thick layer of dust, but not a single one of the shelves around them is holding a book. The only piece of furniture is the library's central desk, upon which is a large, leather-bound book not dissimilar to the one in the main library. Harry looks at it, turning one of the pages, but the parchment is utterly blank: it's not like Mrs Pince's book, which has dozens of library books listed on each page.

"It's empty," Harry says, and a seventh year pats his back.

"Cheer up," he says lightly, "It won't be for long."

"What do you mean?" Harry asks, and the boy laughs. Alexi, Harry thinks his name is.

"Do you truly think, Potter, that a library adjoining our common room is going to go unused?" The boy gives him a little grin and Harry smiles a little, heading to the dormitories for bed. He pulls down his copy of Dastardly Defences, beginning to study the Pimple Jinx.

Draco mumbles a "goodnight" to him, crawling under his covers and pressing his face into the pillows. Harry smiles at the green and blond lump in the next bed, shaking his head, and looks back to his book, dimming the candle on his side of the bed and pulling the curtains on the right side of his bed. The curtains of their beds are thick, and they block most of the light.

Not that Draco would actually notice.

Harry is almost entirely certain Draco could sleep through several explosions if he had a thick enough blanket: for someone so incredibly focused on his own dignity in day-to-day life, Draco's sleeping positions are usually the furthest from dignity one could get.

Harry reads for an hour or so, but when he sets the book aside, he isn't actually ready to go to sleep yet: he shifts on the bed, and then he slides slowly forwards, pulling his invisibility cloak out of the bottom of his trunk. Draco is quietly snoring, the sound nearly entirely muffled by the pillows around his head, and one of his legs sticks haphazardly out from under the bedsheet. Harry really needs to buy himself a camera.

He slips the cloak on over his head, creeping down the corridor and out into the common room. The Slytherin prefects are gathered around one of the tables, discussing who would be willing to donate books to the Slytherin library and which books they ought try hardest to get hold of. Harry leans forwards, looking at the plans: Francis Drummond, a prefect as of this year, has made a rough sketch of the library's plan, and has pencilled in new furniture to be added over the holidays.

Harry can't help but smile as he creeps towards the new little hall off the corridor.

The library's torches have been extinguished, so once Harry is safely in the room he whispers, "Lumos," and pulls the cloak off. The desk, carved of mahogany, is a beautiful piece of furniture: each of the legs is carved to resemble tentacles coiling together as they reach down to the ground, and he can't help but think it's a bit incongruous with the usual serpentine image, but that doesn't mean it's not well done.

Harry crouches at the desk, leaning down and carefully pulling open one of its drawers. As expected, it's empty, but when he pulls the second drawer forwards there's a flutter of parchment coming loose, and he frowns, leaning to watch as it drops onto the ground.

Dumbledore must have missed it earlier, and Harry guesses it was caught in the mechanism at the back of one of the drawers, so he sits back, cross-legged, and looks at it. The parchment is old, and on one side the page is filled with notes on a spell Harry doesn't recognize, but the other is full of sketches. These aren't the rough, procedural drawings he'd just seen Francis Drummond scribble to get an approximation for a room's size, though: these are done in careful pencil, showing a snake wrapping itself around a dagger, a skull made into an inkpot with a quill sticking out of it, a snake's face split in two, displaying the skull under the flayed-off scales...

In a curiously morbid way, the drawings are beautiful, and Harry doesn't want to leave them to be thrown away when the desk is next moved around: without a second thought, he folds the parchment neatly and puts it into his pocket, hiding himself under the cloak again to return to bed.

He doesn't know what it means that he's a Parselmouth, and he sees no reason it should put people into such a frenzy, but he decides, as he slips the old sketches into his letter organiser, that he shouldn't resent it. Theodore has one of the quotes from A Serpentine History on a plaque in his and Blaise's room: To reject a path towards a skill is preference; to reject a talent one possesses innately is stupidity.

Harry slides into bed, putting his head on the pillow, and he closes his eyes.

Being a Parselmouth is the easy part, he thinks. It's keeping Lockhart from talking about it that's going to be hard.


	10. Historical Signifiance

Harry makes his way down to breakfast with Blaise and Theodore the next day, and Harry tells them (without mentioning the cloak, of course) what he'd heard the prefects planning the night before. Theodore nods his head in obvious approval, liking the idea of having a library immediately to hand.

"Do you think it will have the same restrictions to content as the main library?" Blaise asks thoughtfully, "Draco's father has been trying to have some texts added to it for years now."

"It depends on if Dumbledore is in charge of overseeing the list, or if Snape is," Theodore replies, frowning slightly. "I don't think there's much of a loophole there, though."

"Good," Harry says, "I looked up some of the books he's mentioned, and no one needs books like that in a school. If people so desperately want to read some fantasy story about how Muggleborns are the end of the society, they can buy their own copy." Blaise frowns at him.

"They're just facts, Harry," he says, and Harry sniggers, shaking his head. He doesn't even bother to start the argument this early in the morning; he's not really willing to entertain anything that says Jon and Peggy Granger are any kind of threat to the wizarding way of life. Besides, his mum was Muggleborn.

"Yeah, Blaise, sure they are," he says sarcastically: Blaise's lips purse, his eyes narrowing in obvious anger, and he gets ready to argue, but they stop short just before entering the entrance hall. There are two wizards in deep, purple robes, and beside them Harry sees a photographer, looking at the film in his camera. "What the Hell are they doing here?"

"You discovered a secret library that might have been built by Salazar Slytherin himself, and you're surprised the press is going to report on it?" Theodore asks, and Harry groans. He hurries towards the great hall, just wanting to get in and have breakfast, but a hand grabs tightly on the collar of his robes.

"Harry!" Lockhart proclaims, pulling him around. The reporters latch eyes on him, and Harry tries to pull himself free as they come forwards. "Why don't we have a photo together for the Prophet?" The photographer is raising his camera, so Harry stamps down hard on the toe of one of Lockhart's pretentious two-tone shoes, and Lockhart lets Harry go as he cries out. Harry runs into the great hall, moving to sit down between Hermione and Parvati Patil at the Gryffindor table.

"Got confused, did you?" Parvati asks.

"There are reporters that want to take photos of me," Harry says, and Parvati stares at him perplexedly, obviously not understanding why he'd want to avoid that sort of press attention. "Right, Hermione- You've heard how I'm a Parselmouth?"

"Percy was explaining it this morning," Hermione explains, nodding her head. "That's so interesting, Harry, you know there hasn't been a known Parselmouth at Hogwarts since-" Harry feels that if he lets Hermione continue this train of thought, it will be difficult to get any words in edgeways, so he simple talks over her.

"I found a secret library in the Slytherin common room." Hermione's mouth freezes mid-infodump, and she stares at Harry, looking as if four birthdays, two Christmases and Flourish and Blotts' mid-February sale have come all at once.

"Oh my God!"

"There aren't any books in it," he tells her quickly, and her face falls.

"Oh," she says, less excitedly, "But you found a secret library?" Harry explains as they begin to eat, and for the most part the Gryffindors just ignore him - occasionally, Colin Creevey will crane his neck to try to catch Harry's eye, but Harry does his best to ignore it.

"Hi, Harry," Ginny says brightly as she comes down to the table, and Harry smiles at her. "Did you make the right decision and swap houses?"

"Oh, damn, sorry, I meant to sit at the Ravenclaw table-" Hermione snorts, shoving Harry in the side, and Ginny lets out a little laugh, moving to sit with Creevey and some of the other first years further up the table. Now she's settled in at Hogwarts, Ginny seems much more confident and happy: most importantly, she no longer looks at Harry like he's some sort of mythical being that just walked out of the lake.

"She's doing pretty well," Hermione says, seeming to guess Harry's train of thought, and Harry nods his head. "She keeps messing about with the twins, teasing Percy - she's really enjoying it here, and she's even learned a few jinxes." Harry pokes at what remains of his scrambled eggs with his fork, settling into silence as he waits for Hermione to finish her cereal.

No reporters show themselves as they split up for History of Magic and Charms, and Harry forgets about them entirely by the time he and Hermione walk across the grass and settle down on a blanket. The grass is wet with dew, and even though the wind is a little biting, the sun is out and shining warmly on them. Professor Flitwick had told them there'd likely be snow tomorrow, but for the time being the sky is mostly clear.

"Serpensortia," Harry whispers, putting his wand forwards. Nothing happens. Hermione frowns.

"I think it's more like this," she says, and she sweeps her own hand forwards, "Serpensortia!" Her wand lets out a little hiss, but no snake bursts forth.

Harry flicks his wrist a little more: "Serpensortia!" The "snake" that flops forwards is blue, utterly limp, and rubbery. Harry picks it up, feeling it flop in his hands, and Hermione starts to laugh. He hits her with it, and she shoves him away from her, letting out a horrified noise at the thing's damp, gel-like surface and its texture: he lets out a laugh of his own, and then he turns, throwing the thing as hard as he can down the hill into the bushes.

Scandalized, Hermione puts her hand over her mouth, and Harry tries to cast the spell again.

\---

Harry stares down at the photo of him and Hermione laughing together in the paper, lips twisted into a scowl. It's the new morning edition, and the animation shows Hermione and Harry laughing together: it's a nice photo, actually, and Harry's going to cut it out and keep it, but... He hates that it's in the paper. He hates that it's presented next to a photo captioned, Harry Potter's favoured mentor, Gilderoy Lockhart. He hates the whole tone of the article, which acts like he's done some phenomenally difficult thing by hissing in front of a doorway he didn't even know was there.

"It's a nice photo of you and Granger, at least," Theodore says, reading the irritation on Harry's face, and Harry nods his head. "You mastered that spell to cut things yet?"

"Nope," Harry replies, "Would you?"

"Sure," he says, taking the paper, and Harry watches the movement of his hands carefully as he trims around the edge of the photo, pulling it away from the paper. Harry takes it, folding it into his bag, and the paper itself he abandons on the table as he exits the room and makes his way up the stairs towards Transfiguration.

When he arrives at the classroom, McGonagall and Snape are talking outside of the door, and Harry hovers in the corridor, glancing between them. Snape gestures, silently, for Harry to follow him, and Harry sighs, reluctantly following his head of house down the stairs again. There's no sense in arguing, he's sure, and when Snape leads him to a gargoyle on the second floor.

"Liquorice All-Sorts," Snape bites out, and Harry furrows his brow at the strange password as the gargoyle leaps aside to let them upstairs.

"Liquorice All-Sorts?" he repeats. "What, does he like those?"

"Last month," Snape says despairingly, "It was Disco Discs."

"What's a Disco Disc?" Harry asks. It sounds like the sort of drug that centres in soap dramas in Muggle TV.

Snape arches an eyebrow, glancing at him, and then says, "It's the wrong name for a Dazzle Drop." Harry blinks at him, wondering what the Hell a Dazzle Drop is. They reach the top of the stairs, and Harry looks curiously around the room they enter as Snape walks forwards and towards the desk.

"Ah, Harry, you're here," Dumbledore says, standing from behind his desk as Snape sinks down into a chair, lips pressed together. He looks really annoyed, and Harry glances from him to Dumbledore, unsure of what's going on, but then he sees the other two people in the room. The first is a tall, black woman with deep, brown eyes and a short, neatly trimmed afro: the underpiece of her robes is lacy and white, but the outer fabric is a popping cherry red. The collar of the under robes is high, coming right up to her neck like Snape's does, but the outer robes are cut low in a V, showing most of her chest, and she wears black Muggle boots that seem incongruous with the obvious wizarding outfit. The man beside her is only a little taller than Snape, maybe 5'10", and his robes are a plain green: he has dark brown hair, and he's even paler than Snape, but in a way that looks healthy. His skin isn't nearly as sallow, for one.

"I'm here," Harry agrees, "Look, is this important?"

"No," Snape says.

"Yes," Dumbledore says. Harry looks at the headmaster sceptically, and Dumbledore smiles at him before he says, "Allow me to introduce you to Lindon Sartorius," the pale man gives a neat incline of his head, "And Cecilia Hayworth." The woman smiles at him, and Harry stares at the both of them before he glances back to Dumbledore, and then to Snape.

"Are you two, like, the real...?"

"The ones who wrote the books," Hayworth says, "Yeah." She's got an Irish accent. "I wrote An Introduction to the Wizarding World, which you might have been given when you were sorted?"

"I've got Catastrophes of the Recent Past, too. And then of course I've got Ministerial Insight and A Serpentine History, and I know you also wrote the introduction to the 1990 edition of The Heirs of Salazar Slytherin, Mr Sartorius." Harry can't help but feel surprised - wizarding academic books don't tend to have the descriptions of their authors, and he'd assumed that both Hayworth and Sartorius would be well into their eighties, but they're both only in their thirties, maybe approaching forty.

"Indeed, I did," he says quietly, with the same clipped, aristocratic tones the Malfoys, the Greengrasses, and the Zabinis use. Pureblood aristocracy, then, Harry guesses. "And of course, I am aware of your defeat of the Dark Lord as of 1981. Your best work, I should think." Harry laughs: it's rare that someone actually makes a joke like that to his face, and rarer still that the joke strikes him as funny.

"Ms Hayworth and Mr Sartorius are here, Harry, to investigate and examine the library in the Slytherin common room."

"We wish to locate artefacts and books that might have been buried somewhat in recent years, as well as to work out when this library was built, and by whom," Sartorius says, smoothing out on an imaginary crease on his robe, "We would like to utilize your unique talent, Mr Potter."

"Your Parseltongue," Hayworth supplies, "For the moment, we just want to look at the library, but after the holidays we'd like you to help us look through the castle, and use Parseltongue in front of certain snake symbols. If a Parselmouth could open that passage, others might be hidden around the castle, locked in the same way - it would have been a perfect method for Slytherin to restrict access to only himself and his heirs." Her eyes are bright, and she's visibly excited at the prospect: Sartorius, in contrast, stands with his hands behind his back and a neutral expression on his face.

Harry glances at Snape, who is watching the exchange with pursed lips and a disinterested expression, as if the two historians have come into Hogwarts to sell Harry a new brand of hoover. It sounds like a lot of effort for a subject Harry isn't extraordinarily interested in, and he considers downright refusing, but...

After an extended pause, Sartorius says, "We would, of course, pay you for your time, Mr Potter, and moreover, you would be credited with any relevant finds." Harry doesn't need the money, but the idea of being credited is intriguing, and there'll probably be other rewards. Not to mention, Hermione would probably murder him if he turned the opportunity down, and Harry's quite keen on surviving the year.

"Alright," Harry says. "Can I go now?"

"Of course, Mr Potter, but before you go," Dumbledore says, but first he holds out a bowl full of white-chocolate buttons covered in hundreds and thousands, "Would you like a Disco Disc?"

\---

Harry watches Lockhart at the staff table that night, and he can see that he's somewhat put out at the whispers around the room. Some of them are about Harry himself, but the vast majority are about the new people sat at the end of the staff table, talking quietly with each other. New people at Hogwarts always raise a few eyebrows, especially new people under the age of 50, and Harry has already heard some of the older Slytherin lads talking about Cecilia Hayworth's backside.

Lockhart is making conversation with Flitwick, who seems to be doing his best to turn away and talk to Sprout instead, but Lockhart's heart isn't in his boasting tonight: he keeps leaning back to look at Hayworth and Sartorius, or letting his gaze flicker over the room to settle on the students who seem to be most focused on the two historians.

"What houses were they in?" Blaise asks Afifa Lanjwani as they make their way downstairs.

"Hayworth was a Ravenclaw, and Sartorius was in Slytherin," she answers. "They were in the same year as your father, apparently, Draco." Draco puts his chin in the air, seeming proud of this fact, despite his having nothing to do with it beyond blood relation, and Harry rolls his eyes.

\---

Lucius Malfoy, when Harry writes him, is not forthcoming with information. He brushes the both of them off with a "I didn't really know either of them," but Harry is sure he must have at least known Sartorius, were they in the same set of dormitories at school, and he considers asking Snape about them, but he's aware that asking Snape any unacademic questions is usually a bad idea. Except for asking him about Disco Discs, apparently-

Harry looks up from his letter from Lucius Malfoy.

"Snape was raised by Muggles," Harry blurts out. Harry's an idiot, truly: he's seen Jazzies before, or Disco Discs, or Dazzle Drop, or whatever stupid thing you want to call them, and Harry knows they're not a wizarding sweet. Hermione looks up from her Charms essay, peering at him.

"Malfoy said that?"

"No, Snape did. He told me."

"I doubt he told me."

"Indirectly, he did." Harry sets his letter aside, explaining quickly, and Hermione takes it into account, nodding her head.

"I'm not surprised he's not forthcoming about it usually, Harry," she says lightly, "He is head of Slytherin house."

"He's friends with Lucius Malfoy," Harry says, folding the letter and dropping it into his bag to think about later. "It just seems weird that they're friends, if Snape's Muggleborn."

"You don't know he's Muggleborn," Hermione points out, and then he leans forwards, getting a better look at the library entrance. Harry follows her gaze: Lindon Sartorius' expensive shoes make barely any noise at all on the library's floor as he approaches Madam Pince, speaking to her seriously and keeping her gaze. Sartorius' eyes are a deep grey - not the icy colour of the Malfoys', but far darker, flecked with deep brown. Madam Pince waves her hand vaguely, and Sartorius nods his head, leaving the library again.

"What was Mr Sartorius asking about, Madam Pince?" Harry asks the next time she walks by, and the librarian huffs, shrugging her shoulders.

"Library magic. As if it's hard!" With that, Pince walks off again, and Harry and Hermione share a bemused look.

When Harry makes his way down to the common room that afternoon, after lunch, Sartorius and Hayworth are in the library, and Sartorius is making rough notes on a piece of parchment as Hayworth tells him, firmly, "This is a very stupid idea. I hope you realize that."

"My dear, it is not stupid in the least," Sartorius retorts in his smooth, silky voice, and Harry wonders if he does much public speaking. Sartorius is smug, and obviously a bit up in himself, but it's nice to listen to him speak, and Harry would be much happier to hear him drone on to them in History of Magic than he is Professor Binns. Hayworth puts up her hands, shaking her head, and Sartorius leans, kissing her on the cheek in a dramatic fashion.

Harry settles in one of the leather chairs Frank had brought into the library yesterday morning, his copy of James and the Giant Peach in his lap. It's a funny book, thus far, and Harry's going to mention how much he's enjoying it when he next writes Mr and Mrs Granger; he reads in silence for the next hour or so, occasionally glancing at Hayworth to see what she's doing. She mostly seems to be making careful sketches of the room, from a bird's eye position, and then he realizes that she's trying to map where the room adjoins the castle.

Harry is just leaning forwards in his seat to see how it fits in with Hayworth's existing map of the Slytherin common room and the dungeons when there's a tap on the ceiling above them. Harry looks up, staring at the black glass, but then there's a shift in one of the panels.

Blackness seems to steam away from glass above them, and Harry stares up, wide-eyed, as half of the panel disappears, but water doesn't stream into the room from the lake. A pale hand streaks over the glass, and Lindon Sartorius leans in, giving Hayworth an obnoxious wave from outside.

"Did he swim down here from the surface?" Harry asks, watching in horrified fascination as Sartorius holds up his wand, pulling away the layers of soil and muck clinging to the library's glass ceiling, and Hayworth nods her head.

"It's not as if I wanted to do it," she points out, and she looks up at Sartorius as he walks. He's the sort of person who scowls when he concentrates, and it seems he's concentrating hard, drawing his wand over the glass and dislodging the soil clinging to it. It rises in thick clumps into the lake water, and Sartorius pauses to Vanish it every few minutes.

A bubble is formed thickly around his head, letting him breath under the water, but he's stripped off his outer robe entirely, and his grey underpiece clings wetly to him in the water, its skirt floating around him. He doesn't seem to be put off at all by the cold of the lake, despite it being mid-December, and he works for maybe two hours, meticulously dragging every piece of soil away from the library's ceiling.

With green-tinged light filtering in from the lake above, the library looks more open, and Harry can't understand how he'd thought the ceiling was originally just black glass: the ceiling is like that of a conservatory, and it leaves the room feeling airy and bright despite being so far under the lake's surface.

It's beautiful, Harry thinks, watching sunlight shimmer on the floor, wavy and odd after passing through the water above them. Far more beautiful than he'd ever have expected.


	11. The Wagga Wagga Werewolf

"What was wrong with Lockhart this morning?" Harry asks Hermione as they make their way up to the Defence classroom, and Hermione shakes her head.

"So, you know how you were said about Sartorius going in the lake?"

"Yeah," Harry nods his head, and Hermione sighs, seeming almost embarassed on Lockhart's behalf.

"There were all these fifth year Ravenclaw girls out on the grounds, and they saw him coming out of the lake. He was soaked through, obviously, and once he was in the sun, the underpiece of his robes was a bit... Well. Transparent." Harry laughs. Hermione presses her lips together, obviously holding back her own laugh, "And apparently he was rather toned, and not at all bad-looking. So they went inside giggling, shared that with everyone in the school-"

"And now Lockhart's angry that people find Sartorius attractive when he's right there," Harry finishes, and Hermione slowly nods her head.

"I mean, they've both got their good points, of course," Hermione says, "And they look quite different, but both are rather nice." Harry gives her a sideways look, and she catches him, shoving him in the side. "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything, Hermione," Harry replies, smirking to himself, "Both _are_ rather nice. I think you should go for Sartorius, personally. He's got a brain in his head."

" _Stop it_ ," Hermione demands, and she rushes ahead of Harry in the corridor to avoid whatever he's going to say next: she stops in front of the DADA classroom's door, though, and Harry watches her for a moment. "Look," she says, and he follows her finger as she points.

The poster is obscenely bright, painted in a popping red, with a portrait of Lockhart front and centre in the image. He shoots them his winning smile as he gestures to the text printed in block white letters. **DUELLING CLUB! TAUGHT BY THE TALENTED GILDEROY LOCKHART!** In tiny letters, printed in the very corner of the page in black, are the words _Assisted by Severus Snape_.

"This should be good," Harry says, "And on the last day before the holidays, too - tonight should be more exciting than we expected."

"What's it like, staying over the holidays?"

"It's alright. A bit boring, but there's a lot of space to get study done," Harry says, and Hermione nods her head. Jon and Peggy hadn't minded at all when Hermione had said she'd wanted to stay for Christmas: Harry's fairly certain that she'd decided to keep him company over the holiday, and he can't help but be grateful. They make their way into the classroom, settling at a desk beside Parvati, and they wait for Lockhart to arrive.

As always, he does so dramatically, exactly four minutes late, throwing open the door and doing his best to make his robes flare out behind him as he enters the classroom. They give a woeful flip of fabric before returning to Lockhart's sides, and Harry shakes his head, putting his hand on his chin.

Every class with Lockhart is the same. He talks at length about one of his books, and they re-enact some ridiculous scene from one of them, and Lockhart talks about how fabulous he was without actually teaching them anything: they're only at the end of one term, and Harry's already tired of him.

"Professor Lockhart?" Harry asks, raising his hand. Lockhart is in the process of writing _Wagga Wagga Wearwolf_ on the blackboard in his ridiculous, looping handwriting, and Harry isn't even going to point out that he's mispelled the word.

"Yes, Harry!" Lockhart says, beaming widely as he whirls around to face the class.

"Did you study werewolves at school, sir?" Lockhart pauses for a moment, apparently thrown by the question, but then he shows all his teeth again in that big, wide grin again.

"Why, of course I did, Harry, but everything valuable about these monsters I learned upon leaving," he answers, tossing back his hair like a woman in a shampoo advert, and Harry watches him for a moment. He doesn't think he imagines the momentary panic that passes through Lockhart's eyes as he meets Harry's gaze. "Why do you ask?"

"It's just, I've read different books on werewolves..." Harry begins, and he sees Hermione cover her mouth beside him. Everyone in the class, Slytherins and Gryffindors alike, are watching Harry curiously, craning their heads and leaning out of their chairs to get a good look at him as he talks, "One of them, _Lycanthropy In Society_ , talks about how dangerous lycanthropy is, and what a danger werwolves are to our society." Harry sees Lockhart open his mouth, but he goes on talking before Lockhart can interrupt him, "But other books I've read, like _The Plight Of The Wolf_ , talk about the tragedy of lycanthropy, especially because it can't be cured. Once you've been bitten, or even clawed, it doesn't matter how long you stay in St Mungo's - the disease will have been passed onto you."

Lockhart is staring at him with the same rapt silence of Harry's peers, though perhaps for a different reason. "But in Wandering With Werewolves, you detail your brave defeat of the Wagga Wagga Werewolf..." Lockhart's stiff form sags with release, and he preens, offering Harry a charming smile. "But you don't detail your casting of the Homorphus Charm."

"Oh, no, no, my boy, it's very complex magic," Lockhart says airily, waving one of his perfectly manicured hands and leaning back on his desk. "You'd have to wait quite some before you could possibly attempt it."

"Oh, I don't want to attempt it, sir," Harry says simply. "I just wonder why you haven't shared it with the Ministry of Magic, in order that so many lives could be saved from rogue werewolves. I mean, it's not a all-out cure, but imagine the drop in potential casualties if you could force a werewolf back into their human form - I mean, not to criticize you, Professor Lockhart, but keeping that sort of magic to yourself seems very selfish." The Slytherins chuckle to themselves around the room as Lockhart opens and closes his mouth, looking at Harry desperately.

He hears Lavender Brown mutter sharply to Dean Thomas that Harry shouldn't be questioning Lockhart like this, and Harry can see that Lockhart is breathing a little faster than he was before, as if he's perhaps going to lose control. "Could I have a word outside, Harry?"

"Sure, Professor Lockhart," Harry says lightly, and he stands from his desk, following the man out into the corridor.

"Now, Harry, you really oughtn't question a professor's authority - the way one presents themselves is, of course, tremendously important, and we wouldn't want anyone thinking of Harry Potter as some sort of disrespectful young man, would we? You see, Harry..." Lockhart talks for a long time, but after that point, Harry stops listening. There's nothing Lockhart could possibly say to him, in these few minutes, that could be useful or interesting, so he just stands in silence, waiting for the man to stop. "Now, is that all clear?"

"Oh, yeah, Professor. Completely clear," Harry agrees, nodding his head, and he follows Lockhart back into the classroom. With that, he proceeds to close his book, roll up his parchment, and set both into his bag. Lockhart stands stock-still at the front of the classroom, mouth open in utter shock.

"What are you doing?" Hermione hisses.

"Going somewhere I can learn something," Harry replies, and with that, he shoulders his bag, closing the door behind him as he leaves the defence classroom. The corridors are silent and empty - they're not even twenty minutes into the lesson's period, and everyone who isn't in class will be in their respective common rooms or the library. Harry's footsteps echo a little as he walks to the staircases: the sound is satisfying.

He waits patiently as one of the staircases slowly swings towards the platform he's standing on, shifting the position of his satchel's strap on his shoulder. Using the stairs at Hogwarts has become second nature, despite the way they constantly move and intercept each other; like the weaving corridors of the dungeons, there is a sort of sense to them, and it's just a matter of focusing on the bits you need. Over the summer, whilst Harry was failing miserably at picking locks, George had said that it would never serve you to try and figure Hogwarts out - that'd only get you lost and give you a headache. Harry's done his best to internalize that advice.

He steps onto the top of the staircase, but as he starts to walk down the moving steps, Harry's caught short. He's pulled back suddenly, and he turns, staring at the strap of his bag, which seems to be stuck in midair behind him.

"Peeves?" Harry demands, gaze flickering quickly over the air behind him as he tries to pull back his bag strap. "Is that you?" There's no answer, but his strap jolts him, pulling him towards the empty air as the staircase slides slowly through the emptiness of the floor before it reaches the next platform, and Harry's eyes widen. He tries to scramble free, doing his best to duck out from the leather of his satchel, but it seems to be stuck to his shoulder and impossible to escape, and there's another ominous tug that pulls Harry a half-step closer to the edge of the staircase. There's a third, hard pull, and Harry can't resist it with nothing to grab onto: he's pulled off the stairs and he begins to fall, desperately trying to grab at a bannister or a step, or something-

He tries to grasp at a first floor staircase with a harsh, sickening crack of sound: Harry screams as he hits his forearm clumsily into the stone and keeps on falling, thrown onto his back. His fall isn't interrupted by anything else - he just whistles down to the dungeon floor, landing hard on his side with a wheezing yell.

Pressing his face to the cool of the stone underneath him and trying not to cry, he begins to call up to the ground floor for help.

\---

Harry lies on his infirmary bed in silence, twisting a piece of his sheet between his fingers. Madam Pomfrey had shoved three different potions down his throat, and while he isn't exactly in pain, his skin is itching and hot as his bruises heal at obscene speed.

"What have you done, Potter?" Snape asks as he enters the hospital wing, and Harry gives a weak shrug of his shoulders.

"I didn't do anything," Harry answers as Lockhart follows Snape into the room, and Harry stifles his wince. "I was coming out of the third floor corridor and onto the stairs, and my bag caught on something. I turned, and there wasn't anything there - I asked if it was Peeves, but there wasn't any answer, so it pulled me into the stairwell and I fell."

"And why were you coming out of the third floor corridor, Mr Potter, when you were supposed to be in Defence Against The Dark Arts?" Harry meets Snape's black gaze and utterly avoids Lockhart's.

"I left the classroom in a fit of- one second, Blaise called it something really quotable... That's it. A pique of indignation and disbelief."

"Now, Harry," Lockhart says nervously, "That's hardly fai-"

"I asked Professor Lockhart why he wouldn't share his valuable charm to turn werewolves back into people with wizarding society, and he told me that I shouldn't ask him so many questions." Snape's lips twitch in amusement, and Lockhart's perfectly moisteurized cheeks turn an alarming shade of pink.

"I- well, that's not strictly-"

"No matter, Potter," Snape says, cleanly interrupting Lockhart, "Professor Dumbledore requests you detail the incident on paper. Your life, it seems, is under threat once more, Mr Potter."

"When isn't it?" Harry retorts, and Snape turns on his heel to go. Lockhart stares after him, his blue eyes wide.

"Well- Aren't you going to issue him a detention?" he demands, and Snape turns smoothly on his heel once more, staring at Lockhart with arched eyebrows.

"Why, Professor Lockhart," Snape says, putting a sarcastic emphasis on the title, "Bequeathing detentions is entirely within your own power, but I believe Mr Potter has been quite suitably punished already." Lockhart glances back at Harry, having the good grace to look at least a bit guilty, but the sympathy from Snape seems out of character. "With fairness to the boy, he did attend your lesson for twenty minutes before he left."

Harry and Lockhart both stare at Snape with their mouths open, and it's only when Lockhart rushes into the corridor after Snape that Harry begins to laugh.

Which he shouldn't do, really. Laughing with three broken ribs isn't at all enjoyable.


	12. Duelling For Idiots

At about quarter to seven that evening, walking slowly beside Hermione, Harry makes his way down to the great hall. Madam Pomfrey had reluctantly allowed Harry to leave for the duelling club, under the express instruction that he was not to actually duel himself: Harry had quickly agreed. There'll hopefully be more meetings of the club after the holidays anyway, and he doesn't mind watching for the time being.

Harry's bones have knitted themselves together quite well, apparently, but there's still a fair amount of bruising up his side, and he's been left tender. "You think it'll go well tonight?" he asks Hermione quietly, and she gives a rueful little laugh.

"I hope so," she says. "Hello, Mr Sartorius." The historian is just stepping into the entrance hall, and he looks to Harry and Hermione with his eyebrows slightly raised.

"Hello," Sartorius says in his low, quiet voice, and he gives a polite nod of his head. "Mr Potter, why don't you introduce your friend here, as she already knows my name?" He seems to find humour in the situation, and Harry gives the man a funny look, but he does as he's told all the same.

"This is Hermione Granger," Harry says, "She's a Gryffindor."

"Indeed?" Sartorius' laugh doesn't have the same slightly sharp note that a lot of the other Purebloods' seems to have - there's no nastiness in it, and he offers his hand to Hermione. Harry can see that she's surprised, but she still shakes his hand, and offers him a little smile. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms Granger."

"Are you helping with the duelling club tonight?" Harry asks, and Sartorius gives a little shake of his head.

"Oh, no, defensive magic was never a particular skill of mine, and I'm a horrific duellist. I merely wished to enjoy the chaos from the edge of the room." As they enter the room, Hermione and Harry settle on a bench to the edge of the room, out of the way. Two of the long tables have been pushed together in the middle of the room with a thick, blue cloth covering the whole surface and making a platform for the duellists: Snape is already stood on the platform, obviously in a bad mood, and Lockhart is at the side of the room, leaning against a wall and chatting to Cecilia Hayworth. Hayworth doesn't look all that pleased to have Lockhart talking to her, and the relief on her face is obvious when Sartorius approaches, offering the both of them a winning grin.

Lockhart stiffens a little, then rushes up to the duelling platform, clambering up to stand beside Professor Snape. There are a lot of students in the room, Harry can see, all from different houses and different years, but they all go silent when Snape begins to speak.

"Duelling," he says in barely more than a whisper, "Is a time-honoured tradition in the wizarding world. It is a battle of wits, of skill, between its two opponents: it is a true test of one person's magic against another's. A wizard's duel is not a mere case of defensive spells and offensive ones - it is not merely a list of suitable spells. One must learn to move fluidly as one casts, to be ready to change one's stance and position at a half-second's notice: duelling is not for the stiff and upright, but for the constantly evolving."

Hermione and Harry listen carefully as Snape goes on, discussing the history of duelling in his quiet, measured voice. Despite being off to the side of the room, they can both hear him perfectly, owing to the utter silence of the other students watching him, and even Lockhart seems to be slightly spellbound by the way Snape talks on the subject.

"He sounds more excited about duelling than potions," Harry murmurs to Hermione, and she shakes her head slightly.

"No, remember in first year? He gave that poetic speech about what potions can be used for. I think he just likes magic." Harry turns to look at Sartorius and Hayworth, and he can see that Hayworth is murmuring something, explaining something maybe, and he wishes he could read lips.

"Professor Lockhart and I will now have a short duel, that you might observe proper procedure."

"Oh, I don't think that's necessary, do you, Severus?" Snape goes stiff as he meets Lockhart's gaze, and Harry tries not to laugh at the way Lockhart shrinks a little at the sudden glare. "Professor Snape," Lockhart amends quickly, "Why don't we just show a defensive spell first? Now," Lockhart scans the students around the table, but then he spots Harry on the other side of the room. "Harry! Why don't you come up?"

"Madam Pomfrey says he's not supposed to duel, Professor," Hermione calls back, but Lockhart is undeterred.

"Come now, come now! I'll hardly cast back!" Harry sighs, and reluctantly he pulls himself up, making his way up to the duelling platform and stepping up onto the cloth floor. Snape comes towards him, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder before he can approach Lockhart properly. His grip is tight, and he keeps Harry firmly in place.

"Know any good jinxes, Potter?" he asks so quietly Harry can barely hear him.

"You really don't like him, do you, sir?" Harry asks, but he knows better than to expect an answer, and says, "Pimple jinx, sir?"

"Good choice," Snape answers briskly, and he leans away from Harry, making his way down from the duelling platform and leaving Harry alone with Lockhart. Everyone's eyes are on them, and Lockhart offers Harry a big, wide grin as he steps back. Harry sighs.

"Now, Harry, I'm just going to cast this shield charm, and I don't want you to worry about hurting me with whatever little spell you've got planned there!"

"I'm not worried," Harry replies dryly, and Lockhart seems to misinterpret the laughter that spreads through the students gathered around the stage, because he offers them his wide, toothy smile as well. Lockhart stands, making a complicated flicking motion with his wand, and then he stands with his hands on his hips. There's an awkward silence, and Lockhart gestures for Harry to cast. Pulling back his wand and thrusting it forwards in a clean motion, Harry says, "Furnunculus!" The sickly yellow spell flies through the air, and Lockhart bends over with a loud cry as it hits him.

He covers his face with his hands, letting out a horrified shriek, and without saying another word he flees as fast as he can from the room, sprinting out of the great hall's open doors.

"Can I go sit down now, sir?" Harry asks. Everyone is chattering loudly about the spell and why Lockhart's shield didn't work, but Snape doesn't seem at all deterred.

"Off you go, Potter," Snape says, seeming satisfied as he steps back onto the duelling platform again, and Harry retreats. He settles back on the bench beside Hermione, who shakes her head at him in obvious disapproval, but Harry refuses to feel guilty - Lockhart had told him to cast, after all. It's hardly Harry's fault he can't cast a shield charm. "Ravenclaws and Slytherins to my left, Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors to my left. The lot of you, form orderly queues. Now."

\---

At six o'clock, Snape pulls a battered, silver watch out of an inner pocket, glances at it for a moment, and declares the last duel. Once Susan Bones has won against Padma Patil, he orders, cleanly, "Go away." He'd called students up two at a time, one from each side of the room, and he'd mostly critiqued duelling stances and strategies rather than actual spellwork, but Harry still feels like he's come away having learned a lot.

Snape's horrible, but even when he's telling someone they're an idiot, he usually tells them why.

"I'll see you later," Hermione tells him quietly, patting Harry's shoulder gently, and Harry gives her a little nod, making his way towards the platform again as the rest of the students file out of the room. Lockhart had never come back after fleeing, but Harry's sure that by dinner tonight he'll have gotten rid of the new pimples on his face and forgotten about the incident.

Snape sweeps back the cloth from the tables, beginning to levitate them back into their usual places, and Harry takes the chance to practice the folding charm he'd been trying to get right for the past few weeks, doing his best to spread out the long cloth and get it right. In the end, it's folded into a square - a messy square, but a square nonetheless.

He hands Snape his written account of his incident on the stairs, and Snape takes the parchment, scanning over the lines with a neutral expression on his face. "At least it's not a house elf, this time," Harry says, and Snape furrows his brow at him.

"Pardon, Potter?"

"I had this house elf bothering me over the summer - kept telling me I couldn't go back to Hogwarts, and then he stole all my post over the summer. His name is Dobby, but he's been leaving me alone, now." Snape stares at him, expression inscrutable. For a second or two, Harry thinks he's going to say something, but in the end he doesn't.

"I will give this to Professor Dumbledore, Potter," Snape says, and, taking the cloth from the table, he leaves the room.

\---

_Mr Potter,_

_I actually did know Gilderoy Lockhart when I was at_   
_school - I was some years above him, and he was a_   
_Ravenclaw. He was a strange boy, very flamboyant and_   
_more focused on his hair than his studies - especially for_   
_someone in his house - but once he left school he must_   
_have done something right to be so accomplished._

_I didn't much like him, honestly, and thought he was a_   
_bit of a pillock (don't share that with him, of course)._

_He sent me the most terrible Valentine's card to me_   
_when I was in sixth year - he'd made a collage of pictures_   
_of his own face for the card's outside. Needless to say,_   
_I wasn't impressed._

_Hope you're well,_   
_Amelia Bones_

Harry laughs a little as he reads her response, trying to imagine a younger, stern-faced Amelia Bones with a Valentine from Lockhart in her hands. At least Lockhart isn't an idiot just for them. He writes up a quick response for her, making sure to mention that Amelia's niece had won her duel at the club tonight, and he sets it aside to give to Hedwig in the morning before picking up his copy of the Daily Prophet.

The headlines are about some French gourmet shop opening up a branch in Diagon Alley, an altercation between vampires that happened at a Weird Sisters concert, and a debate about centaur lands in the Wizengamot - none of it's really all that interesting, but Harry finds his eye caught by a little advert in the corner of page 2.

**YOUNG REPORTERS CHALLENGE**

_Are you an aspiring journalist below the age of 17?_   
_Do you have dreams of having your name in print_   
_one day, and joining us here at the Prophet?_

_Send us your best article by December 23rd! The_   
_winning article will be published on Boxing Day,_   
_and its writer will receive 100 Galleons and six_   
_months' free subscription to the Daily Prophet!_

Harry looks at the little advert, and he cuts it out - he's still a bit clumsy with the spell, and he's not nearly as smooth with it as Theo is, but he's better with it than he was before. He grins as he holds the little advert in his hand, and he nods to himself.

He knows exactly what he's going to do with this.


	13. The Daily Prophet

Christmas morning brings with it the same ridiculous generosity last year's had, but at least Harry had been able to send people gifts in return this year, and he's beyond grateful for his new books, clothes, and even a few wizarding jigsaws and a chess set that could play against you itself if you didn't have a partner. Harry makes his way out of the common room wearing the new jumper Mrs Weasley had sent him, a smile on his face.

He settles next to Hermione at the single breakfast table once he enters the great hall: they'd agreed previously to exchange gifts at breakfast, and it's a nice kind of normality to share something like this with Hermione. They sit across from each other, and Harry sets his neatly wrapped package on the table, sliding it across to Hermione, and she gives him a bright, wide grin. She pulls two presents out from under the table, which are wrapped a little more messily, with the paper ripped in places, and Harry frowns.

"Why've you got two?"

"Mum and Dad wanted you to unwrap their gift too," Hermione says, the smile staying on her face, as if she knows some secret Harry's not in on.

"Oh, they didn't have to do that-"

"Shush, Harry," Hermione orders, and she hands Harry one of his gifts, which is wrapped in bright, red paper decorated with little lions: in fairness to her, he's wrapped her Christmas present in green, serpent-scaled wrapping paper, and she groans as she gets a better look at it. He waits before he opens his own, keeping his eyes on her face as she pulls open the package.

She frowns at the contents, drawing out the white towel and tilting her head a little, but then she looks at the label, and her eyes go wide. "They dry your hair-" Harry starts, but she interrupts him.

"Oh, Harry, I've been looking at these in Gladrags' catalogue!" she says delightedly. "Thank you! How did you know!?" Harry did not know at all, and just thought they'd be quicker for Hermione in the mornings, so he just taps the side of his nose and does his best to look a bit mysterious. "Open yours, open yours." Harry tears into the paper, pulling it aside, and he laughs when he sees what's inside.

"Michael Jackson's Thriller," Harry says, and he chuckles, smiling at the image of the pop singer on the record's sleeve. "Thanks, Hermione, but I don't have-" Hermione pushes the other package forwards, which is much bigger than the other, and Harry stares at it. "Oh, they didn't."

"They did," Hermione says, and Harry pulls apart the wrapping, staring in utter awe at the turntable inside. It's one of those briefcase ones that you can transport easily, and Harry strokes his fingers over its faux-leather surface. "They bought it from that shop in Diagon Alley, where you got your broom, 'cause you were saying how you'd been listening to the radio over the summer."

"Thank you, Hermione," Harry says, grinning. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you too," Hermione says brightly, and they set their gifts aside for the time being to set about eating breakfast.

\---

"The charm is _Cruso_ ," Harry says, showing Hermione the wand movement, and she copies him, letting a stream of shining, silver baubles come out of her wand. She reaches for one of them, feeling the odd, filmy substance of the bubble under her fingers, and then she draws it back.

"I love spells like this," she says quietly, tapping the bubble with her wand to make it pop and disappear. "It's the simplest stuff, you know?"

"Yeah," Harry agrees, "I get what you mean." To the side of the empty classroom, Harry's new record spins on the table, letting Human Nature sing through the room, and Harry had forgotten how nice it was to just have music playing in the background while doing normal things. "I've gotten better at _Serpensortia_ , you know."

"You must be joking," Hermione says, "How could you possibly be doing better than last time?" Harry shoves her, and she snorts, sitting up on one of the old desks and watching as Harry demonstrates his new found skill.

" _Serpensortia_!" Harry declares, and a snake bursts forth from his wand, settling on the ground. There's a long pause, and it doesn't move. Harry reaches forwards, delicately poking the snake with the tip of his wand, and it remains utterly still.

"At least it's a real snake this time," Hermione offers, truly looking quite sympathetic.

"Yeah," Harry agrees dispassionately, "But it's still dead." He Vanishes the snake with _Vipera Evanesco_ , which he can at least cast without messing up, and he sits across from her on another desk. "I hate Transfiguration."

"No, you don't," Hermione says, leaning back on her hands. "You just wish you found it as easy as learning jinxes or charms."

"What do you find easiest?" Harry asks, realizing he's never asked the question before, and Hermione frowns, seeming to consider the question for a little while.

She swings her legs where she sits, digesting the question for a few moments before she answers, "I don't think I'm the best at any sort of magic, really. I know you can pick up jinxes really quickly, and I know that say, Seamus Finnegan is really good at anything related to fire, but I feel I'm pretty evenly spread. Average in everything."

"You're not average," Harry says, "You're top of every class."

"Yeah, but that's because I study so hard, and because I know all the theory so well," Hermione argues, "I'm not saying it's a bad thing. I'm just saying I've not got a natural affinity for any particular sort of magic." Harry considers this: Hermione doesn't seem too upset by the prospect, but he doesn't want her to feel any kind of inadequate when she's such a brilliant witch.

"That might change, though," he offers, "Next year, when you pick up other subjects. Do you know what you're going to pick?" Hermione groans.

"No! I want to do them all!" Harry laughs, but he feels much the same. Except for Muggle Studies, all of them look interesting - Care of Magical Creatures, Divination, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes... "Is it true they found a secret passage in the Slytherin common room?" Harry looks up at the change of subject, but then he nods his head.

"The day before yesterday. Ms Hayworth found a switch in the back of one of the bookcases, and it slide aside to open up a tunnel. It was broken off partway through, though - you could walk about fifteen feet down the corridor, but then you just met rubble. It looks like it used to join on to some other part of the dungeons, so you had two ways out of the common room, but all the bricks from the tunnel are scattered across the lake bed, and apparently they can't figure out where it used to lead to."

"I suppose Reparo won't work?" Hermione says hopefully, and Harry shakes his head. "God, it's so interesting. There's so much history here, at Hogwarts, and the fact that they can find stuff like this after so long... You're going to help them find more stuff in January, right?" Harry nods his head. "Should be exciting."

"I hope so," Harry agrees.

\---

"Shut up, shut up, all of you!" Harry says, standing on the coffee table where Frank had pushed him, and he holds his newspaper aloft.

**DISASTER OF DEFENCE TEACHING AT HOGWARTS**

_In September of this year, many students across the wizarding_   
_world were delighted at the thought of the great, the mighty,_   
_Gilderoy Lockhart coming to teach at Hogwarts: a prestigious_   
_wonder, he was thought to impart all manner of knowledge and_   
_expertise unto his students._

_If only that were the case!_

There's laughter around the room, and Harry grins as he turns his copy of the Prophet around, showing the photograph Colin Creevey had managed to get of Lockhart's spots after the duelling club. The photographic professor continuously looks horrified at the camera flash and does his best to hide his face: he looks utterly ridiculous.

_Students across Hogwarts have become more and more frustrated_   
_with the teaching methods of Gilderoy Lockhart - an apparently_   
_incompetent wizard in his own right, Prof. Lockhart's classes only_   
_involve acting out scenes from his books, and classtime quizzes_   
_involve such questions as, "What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite_   
_colour?" and "How many women did Gilderoy Lockhart go out with_   
_in the course of Voyages with Vampires?"_

_"He constantly interrupts classes to talk about his hair routines,"_   
_complained fifth year Hufflepuff, Cedric Diggory. "We're all terrified_   
_we're going to fail our Defence O.W.L.s!"_

_"Every lesson is a press conference," agreed seventh year Slytherin,_   
_Afifia Lanjwani, "He's utterly useless, and a disgrace to the teaching_   
_profession."_

A cheer goes up around the room, and Harry's allowed to get down from the table, reading the rest of article to himself once more. They'd taken the article immediately, of course, and it had been permitted an entire page of the Daily Prophet's Boxing Day issue. It'll sell hundreds of extra newspapers, Harry knows, and he decides he'll keep this article to remember the wonder of the endeavour.

Printed in black, white and orange at the bottom of the page are the words **WRITTEN BY GUEST CONTRIBUTORS, FRED G. AND GEORGE F. WEASLEY** , and Harry knows that even if Mrs Weasley is unhappy, the twins are having a very good Christmas indeed.


	14. The Snakes of Hogwarts

The morning after the Hogwarts Express returns, Harry wakes up to a quiet, unfamiliar noise and a warmth on his pillow: he opens his eyes, blearily, and finds his vision completely impeded by a wall of thick, black fluff. Shifting in bed, Harry leans up slightly, and he peers down at the kitten on his pillow, which is purring loudly.

"Draco?" Harry asks sleepily.

"Mmm?"

"Did you bring a kitten?"

"Shut up, Potter," Draco mumbles into his pillow, and he goes back to sleep. Harry gently touches the kitten's glossy, black fur, and its purring gets even louder - he didn't realize they could purr so loudly.

"Oh, there he is," Theodore says from the doorway, and he comes forwards, reaching over Harry and picking the kitten up. It doesn't seem to mind, and it presses its face up against Theodore's chin. "Sorry. Winston thinks everyone's bed is his bed."

"S'alright," Harry says, and he lies back down again. Theodore leaves the room, and Harry wonders for a second if he'd just dreamed that encounter, but no, there are cat hairs on his sheets, and a second impression in the pillow where the kitten had been lying. Winston. What sort of name is that for a cat? After a few minutes of unsuccessfully trying to get back to sleep, Harry pulls himself out of bed, getting dressed and unsucessfully trying to comb his hair down a bit.

Draco's quilt is on the floor, as the other boy had been tossing and turning last night, trying to get used to his Hogwarts mattress again: Harry picks the blanket up and throws it over the other boy's body, shaking his head. He rubs at his eyes as he goes out into the common room, and he sees Theodore settled in an armchair, absently levitating a feather back and forth for his new kitten to chase. It's a Saturday, and at only a little past seven o'clock, barely anyone is awake yet, so Harry makes his way out of the common room and towards the great hall for an early breakfast.

Dumbledore is talking animatedly to Charity Burbage at the staff table, but the only others up there are Sartorius and Hayworth, who are embroiled in conversation with one of the ghosts. Harry begins to make his way up to the staff table when Hayworth waves him forwards, and he realizes the ghost they're talking to is Professor Binns.

The only places Harry has ever seen Binns are his classroom, his office, and the six foot stretch of corridor between the two, so seeing him in the great hall for breakfast is a surprise: Binns, in his typical fashion, doesn't notice Harry's existence, let alone his presence. He and Sartorius are embroiled in a very serious looking conversation about some war or other, but Hayworth focues on Harry.

"Is it alright if we start today, Harry?" she asks, and Harry nods his head. He's had some time to get used to the idea, and giving up a few hours on a Saturday doesn't seem like all that terrible an idea, particularly given that the idea of finding more passes around Hogwarts is an interesting one. Hayworth reaches out, rubbing Sartorius' shoulder, making him glance at her, and then he nods his head. The silent interaction seems normal to them, and Harry glances between them for a second.

With that, he turns around, intent on getting something to eat for breakfast.

\---

"Did you guys want to be historians as soon as you left Hogwarts?" Harry asks as he follows the two historians through the corridors towards the first place they want to try.

"No," Hayworth answers, glancing down at her notes and counting bricks as they walk forwards. "I was actually handpicked out of school by Gringotts, worked as a cursebreaker with them for about five years..." She trails off, frowning at her own handwriting, so Sartorius picks up for her.

"I served as a researcher for a while upon leaving Hogwarts, then published my first book and began approaching new historical sites and the like. When Celia and I met, she found herself quite interested in the book I was writing at the time, and she began to work on her own." Harry considers this for a few moments - he'd never really considered historians and curse breakers as having much crossover, but he guesses that was a stupid assumption to make. He's heard the fifth year Slytherins talk about what they're expecting to do upon leaving Hogwarts, though, and he doesn't think any of them had talked about going into any academic careers.

"Did you know you were gonna be a historian when you left Hogwarts?" he asks.

"I thought I'd be an Auror," Hayworth admits, finding the right brick, and Harry can see the snake motif carved into its surface: the stone is about five feet up the wall, and he reaches out to touch it, drawing his fingers over the snake's surface. "Though he knew he was going to be an academic."

"Of course," Sartorius agrees. "I've got such lovely hands - it would be a crime to ruin them with hard work." Harry rolls his eyes, focusing on the brick again.

 _"Open,"_ he whispers. _"Open up."_ He tries about a half dozen variations before Sartorius suggests he tap the snake with his wand as he talks, and this time when he says " _Open_." the entire brick slides into the wall, revealing a little space in the wall. Hayworth reaches in, and pulls out an empty vial and a few scraps of parchment that seem to be entirely blank. "Is that it?"

"That's it," Sartorius agrees, examining the pieces of parchment as Hayworth holds the vial up to the light. "The majority of the secreted areas are going to be like this, Potter. All of the riches and the treasures, all of the big things, will likely have been removed by Slytherin's heirs over the years: we'll have to work out what we can from what they left behind."

"No offence," Harry says, "But that sounds pretty depressing."

"Yeah," Hayworth agrees. "It often is."

\---

That Monday, Harry's Defence Against The Dark Arts class is awkward, to say the least. Someone (Harry doesn't know for certain it was the Weasley twins) had left dozens of copies of the Boxing Day article around the room, one of which had replaced a portrait of Lockhart's: the article was blown up to three times its original size and framed in oak, but even though Lockhart spent half of the lesson trying to pull it down, he couldn't manage it.

"Oh, just read!" Lockhart snaps, sitting down at his desk and looking broodily into the middle distance. There's an awkward silence, and Harry hears Daphne murmur something to Pansy, but Gilderoy slams his hand hard down onto the desk and adds, "Silently!" Raising his eyebrows and sharing a look with Hermione, Harry begins to read from one of the books in his bag. At the end of the lesson, Lockhart stands, and his hot, furious gaze lands on Harry. "Stay and have a word, would you, Harry?" His usually charisma-laden voice is thick with anger, his tone stiff, and Harry wouldn't stay alone in a room with the man if it would save his life.

"Can't," Harry lies, and he hurries down the corridor to get to his next class.

\---

The next few weeks involve Harry keeping as quiet as possible in Lockhart's classes - it's not actually all that hard, given that Lockhart effectively bans talking of any kind whilst class is in session. By the end of January, there are scorch marks all around the framed Prophet article on the wall, but Lockhart doesn't seem to have been able to get it down, and either the other teachers haven't wanted to or haven't been able to help him: Harry suspects it's the latter.

"Did you go to school with Lockhart?" This is the fourth Saturday he's spending traipsing around the castle with the two of them, and he feels a little more comfortable making idle conversation. They've found barely anything so far: Harry's managed to get six more little rooms and cubbyholes to open up, but all of them had been utterly empty, and he's beginning to wonder what the point of this endeavour is.

"No, I think we left the year before he came in," Hayworth says absently, leading Harry and Sartorius towards the bottom of the Astronomy Tower. "I've heard terrible stories about his mood the past few weeks though, let alone the letters in the paper..."

In the advent of Lockhart's disgrace, letters about the man had been flying thick and fast into the offices of the Daily Prophet, and every other day there was a new one published. Some were from parents of upset students, others from people who'd met Lockhart outside of Hogwarts - one anonymous letter even claimed to have been sent in by a professor at Hogwarts, and the Slytherins had put up a pool in the common room as to who had sent it.

"This one?" Harry asks, pointing to the snake on the wall, and Hayworth nods her head. He begins the process of hissing commands in Parseltongue, but this time _"Open up."_ is sufficient, and the stone in front of him lightens to a deep brown as it morphs into a door. Harry can't help but be amazed at the transformation, and he puts his hand on the doorknob, pushing it open. Hayworth enters the little room first to check for traps or hostile spells, but she lets out a loud whoop of sound once she's in.

"Jackpot!" Sartorius grins at Harry, and the two of them follow Hayworth into the little room. It's about the size of the potions supply cupboard in the dungeons, with the same high ceilings and wooden shelves covering every wall, and one shelf is even stacked with jars and vials of different potions ingredients. This isn't the shelf the two historians are concentrating on, though: the other two shelves are half-full, stacked with different books and neatly rolled pieces of parchment. Sartorius grasps one of these and unfurls it, holding it so he can see it, and Harry peers at it in fascination.

It's a map of the staircases, but even as they look at the map the staircases move back and forth on the parchment, showing every level at once and yet somehow being completely comprehensible. "I thought you said we wouldn't be able to find anything of Slytherin's?"

"Oh, this won't be of Slytherin's," Sartorius says, holding the map out. "Look at the parchment, feel it. I'd say this is from the late seventeenth century, maybe the early eighteenth, and the books look a century or so younger, at least."

"You can tell that just by looking at them?" Sartorius gives a little nod of his head, murmuring something about bindings and paper stock, and Harry watches for a while as the two of them carefully comb through the cupboard's contents, cataloguing each book and piece of parchment, noting down the contents of the jars and the bottles.

"You ever wonder if there was something wrong with him?" Harry asks.

"With Slytherin?" Hayworth asks, and she gives a little laugh. "There's no wondering about that. Why do you ask?"

"It just seems a bit bonkers to hide a cupboard behind a Parseltongue seal, that's all." Sartorius frowns at him, seeming deeply offended on Slytherin's behalf, but Hayworth just shrugs.

"You have a point, kid. You have a point."


	15. Malfoy v. Sartorius

"Oi, Harry!" Harry turns, and he offers the twins a smile as they come towards him. He hasn't seen them around much for the past few weeks - according to Hermione they'd been spending a lot of their time holed up with Lee Jordan in their dormitory, and Harry knows better than to ask what they'd been doing. Fred and George are inventors by their very nature, but Harry doesn't necessarily want to know what exactly they've been inventing.

"Hey, Fred, George. Did you have a good holiday?"

"All the better for your assistance, Harry, my boy," George says affectionately, throwing an arm around Harry's shoulder; on Harry's other side, Fred mimics his brother's action, leaving Harry stuck between the two of them as they walk along the bath down to the owlery. "One hundred Galleons!"

"A hundred Galleons," Fred agrees, "Truly a princely sum for so little effort, so little work!"

"And for a self-rewarding task, no less: Lockhart won't even look at us when we enter his classroom." Harry glances between the two of them, trying to get his head around where this conversation might be going, but then George adds, "But, Harry, were it not for your gallant little self, we'd not have got the idea."

"We gave Creevey ten Sickles for the picture, originally, but we gave him another five Galleons once we won the prize money. We just wanted-"

"Oh, you're not giving me any money for this," Harry says firmly. Fred and George both frown at him. Harry is aware of the pride all of the Weasleys seem to take where honour is involved - it had been hard enough giving Ginny the collected set of Lockhart's books last summer, even though they'd cost so little.

"We're not giving it to you, Harry," Fred argues. "We're just-"

"No, no, look, I didn't contribute at all except to give you the advert. I won't take any money from you." The twins share a look over his head, but Harry won't be convinced. "Look, I'm getting money this year anyway - that Sartorius bloke is paying me per hour for helping him with the Parselmouth stuff, so there's no need." There's a long pause as the twins have a silent conversation over Harry's head.

"Fine," George says finally, and Fred gives a reluctant nod. "Thanks, Harry. It'll look really good for us, that article."

"Well, yeah," Harry says, "Are you guys planning on being journalists?" It doesn't seem quite right for them, but Harry can sort of see it, the two of them as the eccentric, oddball journalists of a comic book series.

"Oh, no," Fred says, giving a little chuckle that's more than slightly evil sounding. "No, no, we have plans galore up our sleeves, Potter, and none of them involve the Daily Prophet." They ruffle his hair, and Merlin, Harry wishes they'd stop bloody doing that, but then they run to leave him be, making their way back up to the castle as they let Harry go and send that week's letters. They're a strange pair, Harry thinks, but he's glad that they're friends rather than enemies - he wouldn't want to live in a world where they pranked him as mercilessly as some of the other students at Hogwarts.

\---

For the rest of the week, Fred and George seem to take note of how much their affection can irritate Harry. Whenever they see him in the halls, they loudly and obnoxiously blow kisses at him, hug him between them, or touch his hair - worse still, Ron and Ginny receive the exact same treatment, and Ron blames Harry for it, as if Harry has some sort of control over Fred and George that he doesn't. Ginny takes it in her stride, laughing and offering back the same, over-the-top fraternity, but Harry just starts hexing them whenever they come too near him.

"Potter! Detention with me on Friday!"

"Professor McGonagall, it was self-defence!" The twins, despite their new jelly legs, stagger down the hall together, laughing, and Harry lets out a noise of frustration as he follows the other Slytherins into Transfiguration. They're studying the theory behind conjuration, and Professor McGonagall leans against her desk, watching them all keenly.

"Is there anyone in here who knows how to conjure a living animal?" Cautiously, Theodore, Draco and Harry each raise their hands, and McGonagall raises her eyebrows, obviously surprised. Conjuration is usually N.E.W.T. level magic, Harry's aware, but the snake summoning spell hadn't been all too difficult, once he'd started practising. "I assume you all know the same spell?"

"Snake summoning, Professor McGonagall," Theodore answers, and she gives a curt nod of her head.

"Why don't you demonstrate for us, Mr Potter?"

"The last time I tried this spell I conjured a dead snake," Harry admits, but Professor McGonagall doesn't seem at all deterred by his hesitation, and gestures for him to stand up and demonstrate his expertise nonetheless. Harry stands, focusing on his desk in front of him, and he casts, "Serpensortia!" A snake does burst from his wand, and for a second it remains tortuously still, but then it gives a twitch and slithers across the table, letting out a hiss. Harry sags in relief.

"20 points to Slytherin house for an excellent conjuration, Mr Potter, and 20 more to Slytherin for you two, Nott, Malfoy." McGonagall is a strict teacher, but she's certainly fair, and she picks up the snake on Harry's desk, bringing it to the front of the classroom and examining it carefully. "Usually, I wouldn't expect conjuration until N.E.W.T. level: well done, the three of you. For now, however, we will continue with our syllabus: get out your cauldrons, and we shall see if we can't make badgers out of them."

McGonagall pauses for a moment, holding the snake very gently between her fingers, and then says, "Have you mastered Vipera Evanesco, Mr Nott?"

"No, Ma'am," Theodore says, shaking his head, and McGonagall turns to Draco, who gives a small nod and casts his spell: the snake Vanishes with a soft hiss, and McGonagall smiles as she looks between the three of them. Harry doesn't think he's seen her smile at a group of Slytherins before.

"Another five points to Slytherin, Mr Malfoy: very impressive." Harry can see Draco all but preen as Professor McGonagall turns away - it doesn't matter, after all, that he doesn't like her personally. Any praise is praise for Draco Malfoy.

\---

"Books!" comes a loud call from the Slytherin common room, and Harry and Blaise lean out of their seats to watch Lindon Sartorius come into the common room, a few boxes hovering behind him as he walks. The Slytherin library has been shaping up nicely, with donations coming from both students (Harry's copies of Lycanthropy In Society and all of Lockhart's books had been gladly contributed) and from various alumni, but there must be forty or so volumes stacked in the wooden boxes, and Sartorius only flicks his wand to set them flying onto shelves. "I shouldn't get too excited, children," he says airily. "These are copies of the books we found at the bottom of the astronomy tower."

"Are they any good?" Harry asks as various students pick at the books, scanning through them.

"We've printed them out, as they were all hand-written, but they're a mix of spare notes, lesson plans, journals and abandoned sketch books. Helpful from an academic's view, but not the most exciting of reading." Harry has never seen Sartorius in such a good mood as he stacks up his boxes: the smile on his face is dazzling, and he looks about the Slytherin library with an obvious satisfaction. "There were nineteen books discovered in all, and you're receiving two advanced copies of each: six of the same are being donated to the main library."

Harry walks with Sartorius out of the common room, holding his boxes for him, and asks, "Advanced copies?"

"All others are being sold to Flourish and Blotts: all profits from their production will be sent straight to Hogwarts, but they're going to be free to copy, to redistribute, et cetera. It's called public domain, apparently." Harry frowns, considering this thoughtfully, and he hands Sartorius his boxes back as they come up to his and Hayworth's quarters. "There'll be an article in the Prophet, tomorrow."

"Will people be angry? That you've republished old journals just for the sake of it?"

"Oh, undoubtedly," Sartorius says with a self-satisfied grin. "I'm rather looking forward to it."

\---

"So, we've done these 9 locations," Hayworth says, pointing at the list she'd compiled of all the snakes and serpentine carvings throughout the castle, and Harry glances at them on her map, where each of them is crossed off with green ink. "And we've got six more to have a look at, plus any that come out of our Prophet interview." The interview had primarily been to answer questions as to what the two of them were finding at Hogwarts, and how the information would be distributed upon their finishing the project: at the end of the little article, there'd been a note asking for those who remembered particular snake insignia around Hogwarts to let them know.

"Professor Dumbledore is going to reiterate that message for us tonight," Sartorius says, and Harry nods his head. "These all do seem doable, Harry?"

"None of it's been hard for me," Harry admits. "All I do is hiss at a statue."

"Yes, well-" Sartorius stops short at the knock on the empty classroom's door, and he calls, "Come in!"

"Oh," Harry says as the door is pushed open, and he stares for a second before he says, "Hi, Mr Malfoy. You okay?" Malfoy casts a disparaging glance around the room, glaring at Sartorius and Hayworth before he turns to Harry and softens a little.

"I am indeed "okay", as you put it, Mr Potter," Malfoy says, offering a somewhat pleasant smile before he turns to meet Sartorius' gaze, and then his expression goes utterly cold once more. For someone so utterly concerned with his hair, the flawless nature of his son, and the birds he keeps (peacocks and doves, mostly, but he seems to love them as much as Hagrid loves monsters), Lucius Malfoy is extremely good at appearing utterly terrifying. "Lindon," he greets with a faux-warm smile.

"Lucius!" Sartorius responds, fake joy shining in his cold eyes and his tight smile. "Shall we converse outside?"

"Let's," Lucius agrees, and Sartorius closes the door behind him as they go outside to speak. Harry looks to Hayworth, but she's utterly silent, lips pressed together: she holds her left hand out lightly, as if ready to draw her wand at any time. Harry creeps up to the door, peering through the window in its surface, and he sees Lucius walk right into Sartorius' space, until they're barely two inches apart: once again, Harry curses his inability to read lips.

Lucius turns on his heel and leaves abruptly, and Sartorius gives a dramatic sigh as he enters the classroom. "Oh, he's angry, Cecilia. Isn't that shocking?"

It's not the actual publication of the books that Malfoy seems to mind, Harry finds later, when Sartorius and Hayworth begin to explain it. It's not that the money from their discovery will go to Hogwarts. The whole issue Malfoy and various other purebloods have with the publication is that they're being sold freely to whomever wants copies: they should be kept away from the hands of Muggleborns and kept only in the hands of those who deserve those pieces of history.

It's utterly insane, Harry thinks. But it's not the first bit of pureblood culture that's thrown him for a loop.

\---

**SARTORIUS SHAMED**

Harry stares at the declaration in the Prophet's headline, and tries to ignore the whispers travelling quickly up and down the Slytherin table, from one person to the next. Harry's most recent letter is from Lucius Malfoy, quietly advising that he not take up with Sartorius' kind, lest he be similarly disgraced: Harry hasn't yet decided if Malfoy is showing honest concern, or if he's threatening him. Harry suspects that it's a mix of both.

The main photograph on the front page of the paper is of Sartorius leaning in to kiss a man with dirty blond hair, then drawing back laughing, and while the Prophet doesn't go into the sordid details, it assures the reader that Witch Weekly will in their further articles this weekend.

"Is it really such a big deal that he's gay?" Harry asks Blaise and Theo, and the both of them look at him blankly.

"Gay?" Blaise repeats, frowning and furrowing his brow, and Harry should have realized "gay" wouldn't translate into wizarding terminology - they hadn't used any particular word for it at all in the Prophet, after all. They'd just called it deviant. It's actually pretty much the same to how the Dursleys talk about gay people at home, and Harry's struck by the uncomfortable similarities between purebloods and the Dursleys.

"Uh, it's a Muggle word - is it such a big deal that he's attracted to men, I mean?" Theo scoffs as Blaise lets out a low sound of comprehension, and Theo gives a sharp shake of his head.

"It's not illegal, but it's certainly something to be approached behind closed doors. For purebloods especially - one can hardly continue one's bloodline if one takes up with another man."

"It's a fetish," Draco says, spitting out the word like it's poison, "People like that should keep it to themselves."

"Right," Harry says lowly, sipping at his tea and forcing himself not to say anything more as he stares into the middle distance, pressing his knees together under the table and going stiff in his place. "Right."

\---

"Are you okay, Mr Sartorius?" Harry asks the man when he sees him the next morning in the corridor, and he seems to find the question utterly hilarious: he throws back his head and begins to laugh before he stops himself, looking down at Harry with apparent affection on his features.

"Do call me Lindon, Harry," he says airily, "And I should think you might call Cecilia by her given name at this point." He doesn't answer the question, and Harry doesn't bother to try and press any more. For Valentine's Day, there are bright, pink ribbons and balloons all around the great hall, and to Harry's horror, there are little gnomes rushing about the room, pushing cards and gifts into the hands of students.

Colin Creevey seems to be doing his best to photograph the room from every angle, and when a gnome pushes a Valentine's Day card into Harry's hands, he sees the camera flash from the corner of his eye, and he snaps at Colin to leave him alone for a bit. The first year, though, is already quite distracted.

Holding a gigantic, anatomically-correct heart made of paper above their heads, the twins stride into the room, and they drop to their knees in front of Sartorius, declaring, "Happy Valentine's Day, oh beloved historian!" Sartorius' pale cheeks go slightly pink as the twins tear the heart into two pieces, sending pink confetti and paper snakes flying into the air.

Sartorius laughs, and he leans down for the twins to pose with him for a photo: Fred and George each kiss him on one of his cheeks, and there are cheers from half of the students around as Colin's camera flashes: Harry catches Creevey by the shoulder, and murmurs, "I'll give you three Knuts for two copies of that picture, alright, Colin?"

"Alright, Harry!" Creevey says excitedly, and Harry grins at Fred when the older boy catches his eye.

\---

"How're you feeling, Harry?" Hermione asks as they walk over the bridge together, their gaits slow and casual. She glances up and down the bridge for other students, finding it empty, and then says, "I'm sorry about what they said in the Prophet."

"I guess the magical world can't be perfect in all respects," Harry replies, and Hermione nods her head. She hesitates for a second, and then she puts her hand out towards him: he takes it, and they keep walking, hand in hand. "I'm not gay."

"I know," Hermione says, "I heard Malfoy teasing you about the photo of that pop singer you've got on your wall, in her underwear."

"She's not in her _underwear_ ," Harry protests, feeling a bit of colour come to his cheeks. "She's wearing a light robe."

"Practically naked, Malfoy said," Hermione says, and she squeezes his hand as come off the bridge and down into the grounds. There's a little snow scattered around in small, slushy piles, but for the most part it's all melted away, and the grounds are just damp rather than blanketed in white. "We're over halfway through the year, now. I'm sure you'll survive."

"Oh, don't say that," Harry mutters, "You'll only jinx it."


	16. Casting Shadows

"What are you looking at, Harry?" Theo asks, and Harry glances at him before looking back to the catalogue. "Tents?"

"I thought I'd maybe go camping during the summer," Harry lies in a light, easy tone, "They're not as expensive as I thought they'd be." Actually, the modest tent with a small, working kitchen and bathroom is the one Harry has his eye on, and it's 400 Galleons. It is expensive, but he's already earned about two hundred Galleons for his few hours of work on Saturdays, and it's a luxury Harry is quite willing to sacrifice some extra reading material for.

It's midway through April, and he can hear the rain pattering on the lake surface outside as he leaves the common room and makes his way up to the library, his catalogue stuffed into his bag. "Hey, Harry," Ginny says, catching him in the hall.

"Oh, hello, Ginny," Harry says, offering her a slightly awkward smile. The Valentine he'd got in February had been anonymous, but he has a sneaking suspicion he's quite aware who sent it to him: Ginny, to her credit, betrays no inkling of this.

"I just wanted to let you know, I just saw a snake."

"Oh, really? Where?"

"In Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, on the second floor. It's on one of the sinks. You haven't checked there yet, have you?"

"Uh, no," Harry admits, but he nods his head. "Cheers, Ginny, I'll mention it to Celia." He eats his breakfast quickly, and he only bothers to give the Daily Prophet a cursory scan: there's not much in it this morning but celebrity gossip and foreign Quidditch scores.

"Good morning, Harry," Sartorius says smoothly as he and Hayworth come down from the staff table. "Good night's sleep?"

"Yeah," Harry agrees. "It was duelling club last night, so I stayed up practising this new spell I saw Roger Davies cast on some Hufflepuff - a knee-reversal hex?" Cecilia winces, so Harry quickly changes the subject, "Ginny Weasley just said there's a snake in the bathroom on the second floor, Moaning Myrtle's?"

"Really?" Celia asks,and she hums thoughtfully, "Let's go check it out then. I don't remember anything being in there, but no one likes to use that bathroom."

"Myrtle Warren? The girl that was murdered back in the forties?" Lindon asks, perking up somewhat, "I never realized she haunted a bathroom." Celia nods her head, and they walk up the stairs together. Harry hasn't seen a snake on a sink, so he has to wonder what sort of broom cupboard or tiny hole this particular passage way could possibly lead to.

They make their way into the bathroom, and Celia makes her way to talk to Myrtle, who pops up out of a toilet in a disconcertingly casual manner. Harry begins to examine the sinks, and then he sees the serpent Ginny must have been talking about: it's carved into the side of one of the pipes, and Harry stares at it carefully. Over the past few months, using Parseltongue has become easier and easier, and he's gaining more of a proficiency in its use: he wants to experiment, in the next few weeks, with casting in Parseltongue and seeing if it makes any difference to spells, but he's not quite at that level yet.

" _Open_ ," Harry hisses, and he steps back as the sink begins to sink slowly into the pipes below, disappearing out of sight. Harry leans forwards, peering down the tunnel that dives deep into the darkness, and he feels Lindon's hand coming forwards, but it's too late: Harry jumps, tucking in his elbows as he slides down the dark tunnel and lands... Somewhere.

" _Stairs_ ," Harry orders. " _Ladder_?" There's the sound of metal rungs clunking out of the main part of the pipe behind him, and he calls up, "Come down! It's safe at the bottom!" He turns, looking around him, and even as he turns his head torches light at the edges of the room. He's standing in a high-ceilinged hall, marble friezes carved into the walls around him: the floor is wet and slightly gritty, and he can see there's moisture dripping from some of the walls.

"That was idiotic of you!" Cecilia snaps at him as she comes away from the ladder, and Harry shrugs.

"You'd have made me stay up there if I hadn't gone first," Harry points out, and Cecilia lets out a noise of frustration that echoes through the hall.

"He makes a fair point, Celia," Lindon murmurs, beginning to walk down the centre pathway of the hall. Although the firelight coming from the torches seems completely normal, their flickering light is tinged green by the water around them: Harry suspects at least some of the light is coming from the lake, just as it does in the Slytherin common room, but he can't be sure. The hall continues into a small corridor, and Celia pushes both him and Lindon behind her as she makes her way slowly down the much narrower passageway. After twenty feet or so, though, the corridor opens up again, and Harry wonders if it was originally built like this, or if they had to make some changes to it. After all, if Slytherin built this place, that would have been way before there were sinks and modern plumbing materials in the bathrooms.

Ahead of them, Celia gasps, and Lindon runs forwards to see what's wrong with her. The silence that follows is ominous, and so Harry walks slowly down the little corridor until he reaches green-tinged light and a high ceiling again, but he's struck with the same sudden muteness as the other two.

Lindon Sartorius is on his knees, not caring that the damp, mossy water staining the chamber's floor is soaking into the fabric of his pressed, expensive robes: he's staring up with almost religious awe at the statue that dominates the room. It shows an old man in robes with a thick beard and long hair that each come down to his chest, but the sheer scale of it is what's shocking: the statue, carved of grey stone, must be sixty or seventy feet tall.

"Is that-"

"That's Salazar Slytherin," Lindon whispers, his voice full of fervour and almost religious passion. "Do you know what your little friend has lead us to, Harry?" Lindon looks at Harry with a look of rapture on his face, and Harry wishes someone were here who'd tell the historian to calm down. "This is Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets. This- this place is positively mythical." Lindon scrambles to his feet, and he and Celia grab at each other's hands and forearms, arguing with such rapid talk that Harry can barely understand the two of them, so he doesn't bother. He takes a few steps forwards, looking up at the gigantic statue of Salazar Slytherin, and wonders why anyone would ever want a statue of themselves that bloody big.

Salazar Slytherin, it would seem, was an even bigger pillock than Gilderoy Lockhart. Harry sees an odd shadow flicker wall across the room, and he frowns, turning to ask about it, but then he freezes. Lockhart, in all his orange-robed glory, stands in the corridor they'd just passed through, his wand in hand and a mad glint in his blue eyes.

"Stupefy!" Lockhart yells, and Cecila is thrown back by the force of the spell, dropping unconscious to the damp stone with a wet thunk. Lindon pulls out his wand, placing himself between Lockhart and Harry.

"Go!" he orders, and all Harry can think of is Lindon telling him he's no good with defensive magic, but he scrambles back all the same, grasping for his own wand as he runs to the other end of big, cavernous chamber and towards the feet of Salazar Slytherin. He doesn't know what Lockhart is doing, but he knows that the man looks dangerous, and he looks desperately around for another door, an exit, something to lead him away from the dead end of the chamber at Slytherin's feet, but there isn't one.

"Oh, Harry. Harry, Harry, Harry..." Lockhart calls across the room, making his way slowly forwards. Both Sartorius and Hayworth are lying on their sides on the wet floor, unmoving, and Harry brandishes his own wand as he looks at Lockhart. "I might have let you keep your memories, you know, but you've just been so selfish this year, so ridiculous."

"My memories?" Harry demands, stumbling back against the wall, and he starts desperately trying to think of any word that comes to mind in Parseltongue, _"Open, exit, secret door, open up, open sesame, please-"_

"Oh, yes," Lockhart says sweetly, running a hand through his hair and striding forwards with the arrogant confidence Harry hasn't seen out of him for months now. "You see, Memory Charms are rather a speciality of mine, and I'll be certain you don't remember a thing. I can see the headlines now: historians and beloved hero, Harry Potter, found mad in mythical Chamber of Secrets. Gilderoy Lockhart, five times winner of-

 _"Help,_ " Harry hisses out, and this time, there's- something.

He stares up at the statue of Salazar Slytherin, and he listens to the grinding of stone as Slytherin's mouth begins to slowly, slowly, open up.


	17. Basilisk's Glare

Harry hurries out from his place under Slytherin's mouth, making his way as fast as he can to the corner of the room without turning his back on Lockhart, but it doesn't matter. Harry sees the first bare shimmer of scales in the dim, green night at the same time Lockhart does, and Lockhart lets out a loud scream as he flees the Chamber of Secrets as fast as he can.

The snake that slides forth from Slytherin's mouth is huge, carefully manoeuvring itself down to the ground, and Harry squeezes his eyes tightly shut as it keeps on coming, not daring to open them. Of all the deaths he'd want to stare in the face, this isn't one of them.

 _"Keep your eyes closed, little heir,"_ comes a loud, rasping voice that seems to reverberate through Harry's chest, and he can hear the difference now - he can hear the whispering at the edges of the words, simultaneously hear the hiss and the language he understands. _"My gaze will kill. You have woken me from my sleep."_ Harry can't see it, but he can feel the amount of space the snake must take up in the room: it's huge, ridiculously huge, and Harry has to concentrate to keep himself from shaking in his place.

 _"I didn't mean to!"_ Harry hisses out, keeping his eyes as tightly shut as he possibly can. _"Can't you go back to sleep?"_

 _"My sleep was assisted by the magic of the heir some years ago - I cannot sleep so deeply without the charms of a Parselmouth's magic."_ Harry can hear the huge thing's scales shifting and splashing softly in the puddles on the chamber's ground, and he just wants to get to safety, needs to get the two historians out of the way and into safety.

 _"Er, well---"_ What do snakes like? _"There are rats. In the pipes."_

 ** _"RATS?"_** the monster serpent repeats with loud delight, and Harry sags with relief - rats are, fortunately, a universal love amongst snakes, or so it seems like. Harry listens to the snake as it moves off, and he counts to two hundred before he opens his eyes: he just sees the tip of the gigantic monster's tail slip into a darkened passageway he hadn't noticed before, too close to the corridor for him to have escaped into it.

Harry runs to Celia and Lindon, but both of them are alive: trying to drag them towards the pipes is utterly useless, as it takes too long and he'd only have to leave them at the base of the pipe, so he runs straight to the bathroom, yelling as loudly as he can down the corridors for someone to come, to come now, to help now.

\---

Harry breathes heavily as he stares down at the two historians. Madam Pomfrey had said they were just Stunned, and they'd be quite fine, but Harry doesn't want to leave the infirmary until he's absolutely certain of the fact.

"Professor Lockhart has been detained," Dumbledore says very quietly from Harry's side, and Harry doesn't even look at him, keeping his gaze concentrated on Celia, whose breaths are beginning to speed up a little. She'll be awake soon, Madam Pomfrey had told him. "We have him locked quite safely out of the way."

"He said he was going to wipe my memories," Harry says distractedly, tapping his fingers onto his knees. "Said he was going to wipe all of our memories." There's a sick sort of anger burning in his chest, a quiet fury that seethes through him, just under his skin. He doesn't want Dumbledore near him right now - he doesn't want anyone near him right now.

"How did you force him to flee, Harry?" Dumbledore speaks quietly in the same, grandfatherly tone he seems oh-so-fond of using, but Harry doesn't want to hear it right now. He doesn't want Dumbledore's kindly air - if anything, he'd rather Snape's biting, sharp tones right about now.

"I'd prefer Mr Potter, if you don't mind, Professor," Harry says through gritted teeth, because it's Dumbledore's fault Lockhart is here in the first place, and after an extended silence, Dumbledore tries again, repeating the same question.

"How did you force him to flee?"

"There was a snake," Harry says quietly, "A big one, gigantic. It told me not to look at it, else I'd die." He tears his gaze away from the two historians to look at Dumbledore, and he breathes in, slowly. He'd forgotten about the snake for a few minutes, so focused was he on Lockhart and the two historians, but now he forces himself to think about what's wandering the pipes of Hogwarts right now. "What sort of snake is that?"

"It would meet the description of a basilisk," Dumbledore murmurs, his blue gaze boring into Harry's own. "A fiercely venomous snake that can kill those who look at it with a single look, but it will be killed by the cry of a cockerel. I'll have Hagrid-"

"You can't kill it," Harry breaks in, surprised by his own intense feeling on the subject, "It's not the snake's fault. It's been in that Chamber for hundreds of years - you can't just kill it. It could tell us so much, about Slytherin, about his heirs, about the castle, and it doesn't deserve to die just for what it is." Dumbledore is watching him with a quiet, focused gaze, and Harry turns his head away. Dumbledore seems somehow pleased at Harry's want to keep the snake alive, and Harry doesn't know what that says about Dumbledore, or what it says about himself.

"And what would you suggest we do instead, Mr Potter?"

\---

Harry slides down the pipe from Myrtle's bathroom again, making his way slowly into the Chamber of Secrets once again. He commands for the ladder to reappear behind him, so that he can easily flee if he needs to, and he stops short for a few moments. Dumbledore is waiting at the entrance in the bathroom upstairs, ready to pull Harry out if need be, but he'd agreed that the snake would react better to Harry talking to it himself. Harry begins to walk forwards, making his way back to the broader part of the chamber.  
He's stopped short, though, by a loud pop from behind him, and he turns, staring. "Harry Potter must not!" Dobby begs, his huge, watery eyes shining with desperate tears: Harry hasn't seen him since the summer, but of course he recognizes the house elf's dirty pillowcase and his wrinkly little face.

"What the Hell, Dobby? Have you been following me this whole time?"

"Dobby thought the danger was over, Harry Potter, sir, and left Harry Potter's side before Christmas," Dobby says anxiously, jumping from one foot to the other and wringing part of his pillowcase between his fingers, "But Dobby had heard, sir, that the Chamber of Secrets has been opened, and Harry Potter must be safe - Harry Potter must not face the monster." His ears are flapping wildly, and Harry scrambles away from him, making his way into the little hall.

"Please, Dobby, just leave me alone!" he snaps, and he closes his eyes tightly again, touching the sides of the narrow passageway to keep himself on the right track. He stops when he puts out his hand and meets free air, lingering in the little hallway. "Hello?"

 _"The little heir has returned,"_ the basilisk says, and Harry shocks backwards with a gasp: the snake's head must be close to him, because he feels its exhalation on his skin, and despite himself he acts on instinct, retreating back into the hallway a bit. He wonders if the small corridor would be too small for the snake to get into, but he doubts he'd be so lucky for that to be the case.

 _"Yes,"_ Harry says, _"What's your name?"_

 _"We do not have names,"_ the basilisk responds in a disparaging tone, " _No serpent needs a name, the King of Serpents even less so."_

 _"Right,"_ Harry says awkwardly, _"Well, look. I don't want to put you back to sleep in the Chamber of Secrets."_

 _"Finally!"_ the basilisk proclaims in horrible, hissing joy, _"Am I finally to fulfil my ancient purpose, little heir? Am I to purge the school of its scum?"_ There's a sick feeling in Harry's belly, and he shakes his head without opening his eyes.

 _"No,"_ Harry says hurriedly, _"No, nothing like that, but I want to get you somewhere better, somewhere with rats and all kinds of stuff to eat."_

_"Somewhere... Better?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"Somewhere... Else?"_

_"Well, yeah,_ " Harry says, sensing something off about the basilisk's tone, _"Why live in the bowels of the castle like this, right? You could be free!"_ The snake lets out a loud hiss that sounds like a cry in Parseltongue.

 _"Are you truly the heir of my master, my creator, Salazar Slytherin?"_ it demands loudly, and Harry's heart begins to beat hard in his chest.

_"Er-"_

_"You are not!"_ the basilisk roars, its fury making the walls of the chamber rattle. _"You traitor, you liar, you cad!"_

Harry feels the sudden displacement of air as the basilisk rears back, ready to bite him, but then he hears the warcry of, "You shall not harm Harry Potter!" The basilisk lets out another loud scream, and Harry opens his eyes in pure surprise as hot wetness spatters across his chest and little across his face. It's blood, he realizes, basilisk blood: Dobby has taken out the snake's eyes.

"Come on, Dobby!" Harry yells, gesturing for the house elf to follow him down the hall and back towards the entrance. The house elf doesn't move, keeping his little hand outstretched as the basilisk screams, and Harry yells again, "Dobby! Come on, we've got to go, we've got to get out-" His voice echoes loudly down the little corridor, but just as Dobby turns to follow Harry, the basilisk lunges.

The wet crunch of the little house elf's body under its teeth echoes nauseatingly throughout the chamber, and Harry's stomach gives a sick lurch as he drags himself up the ladder and up into the bathroom.


	18. The Long Way Home

Harry lies in utter silence in his infirmary bed, staring into space. He wears his usual pyjamas, and he has two quilts drawn over him - despite this, he continues to shiver violently at the slightest of breezes, and he's aware that everything Madam Pomfrey has given him so far has probably had a heavy dose of Calming Draught in it. He'd stayed overnight in the infirmary after he'd dragged himself out of the Chamber of Secrets, and now that morning has come, Dumbledore has come to speak with him.

"Do you think we can talk, Harry?" Dumbledore asks.

"Mr Potter," Harry corrects him sharply, and he sees the disappointment on the old man's face, but he doesn't apologize. Dumbledore sits slowly in the chair beside Harry's bed, and Harry breathes in slowly as he carefully closes the curtains around Harry's bed. "Is it dead?"

"We believe the basilisk has fled into the Forbidden Forest," Dumbledore answers quietly, "Its eyes were completely destroyed, so it may die of its wounds soon enough. I'm afraid Dobby, the house elf, died during the encounter." Dumbledore phrases it so delicately. Encounter.

"He wasn't supposed to be there," Harry says. "He said- he's been-"

"During the summer," Dumbledore begins, "Dobby's master put a dark magical artefact in the hands of one of our first year students, with the intention that its effects be felt through Hogwarts. It was Dobby who caused the chaos at King's Cross station this year, in disenchanting the wall between platforms nine and ten. Inadvertently, he ensured that the diary was found, as each of the school trunks had to be brought to Hogwarts in smaller batches.

Not realizing this, it was Dobby who pulled you from the stairs in December. He believed that, were you injured sufficiently, you might be sent home. Professor Snape recognized his name when you mentioned it to him, and I managed to catch him aside the next time he attempted to hospitalize you, explaining that the artefact had been confiscated."

"But when you sent word that the Chamber of Secrets had been discovered to the governors, he heard," Harry says. "He knew. He didn't need to- He shouldn't have-" It plays again and again in Harry's mind, the sick, sharp noise of the elf's bones shattering under the teeth of the basilisk. It's not the same as seeing Quirrell burning under his hands: it plays over and over again in his mind, wrenching him with guilt upon guilt. Quirrell would have killed him, was harbouring Voldemort, but Dobby was trying to help him, just wanted to keep Harry safe. Harry didn't even know him. "Who was his master?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Mr Potter," Dumbledore says delicately, and Harry shifts under his bedsheets, pulling them more tightly around himself. There's a long silence, and Harry closes his eyes tightly, doing his best to ignore the headmaster beside him. He can't sleep - it's only five o'clock in the afteroon, despite Harry's utter exhaustion, and so he just lies there, eyes closed, body stiff.

"Open your eyes, Potter," Snape orders after an indeterminate amount of time, and he looks up, wondering what the Hell Snape is goign to say to him, but then he realizes he'd brought Hermione. She pulls the armchair close to the bed, sitting beside Harry, and without saying another word, Snape leaves the room. Harry's not going to talk back to him for a month. Harry's going to send him a bouquet of flowers. Harry has never felt as much gratitude for his head of house as he does in this moment.

He lies in silence for the longest time as Hermione looks down at him, her brown eyes full of tears, and there's another aching twinge in his belly. "Don't cry," Harry says, "I'm fine."

"You're as pale as parchment," Hermione retorts. "You're obviously not." Hermione scoots further forwards, and then she climbs onto the bed beside him, shoving him half a foot to the side and getting under the covers with him, but he doesn't mind. Harry sits up with her, leaning against the pillows, and they lie back against the wall for a while, shoulder to shoulder. "What happened?"

"Well," Harry says slowly, "Ginny caught me in the hall this morning..." He talks for what seems like hours, letting word upon word tumble clumsily out of his chapped lips, and Hermione just listens, sitting there next to him in bed - is this what having a sister feels like, Harry wonders? He knows that she's there, that she wouldn't dare leave him be right now, and gratitude surges through him as he just keeps talking and talking, until he's so exhausted he can't say anything more.

And then they just sit there in silence again, until Harry feels himself falling asleep against Hermione's shoulder.

\---

The Hogwarts Express moves slowly out of Hogsmeade station, and Harry sits in silence as he waits for Hermione to come back from the bathroom. He'd changed into Muggle clothes that morning, not bothering to wear his Hogwarts robes for the carriage ride down to the station, but Hermione had worn them for propriety's sake.

Perching on her cage beside him, Hedwig leans in, and Harry lets her rub her head against his own, leaning into the touch. On Hermione's seat is a discarded copy of the Daily Prophet, displaying photographs of Lindon Sartorius and Cecilia Hayworth standing before the statue of Salazar Slytherin in the Chamber of Secrets.

Once the basilisk had fled the Chamber of Secrets, Dumbledore and McGonagall had sealed the pipeline it had used to flee into the forest, and with the basilisk gone, the historians had been free to explore the hall's depths at will. Thirty or so different academics had come to study the Chamber in the past few months, but Harry had felt no satisfaction at finding it. He'd felt even less when Lindon had insisted he take a three hundred Galleon reward for his assistance, though it had given him some small comfort to see Ginny Weasley's utter shock and delight when Lindon had presented her with a similar prize.

"Stop thinking about it," Hermione says as she comes into the carriage again, robes replaced with a blouse and a pair of jeans.

"I wish I could," Harry admits. "How long do you think his stint in Azkaban will be?"

"I don't know," Hermione says quietly, reaching out and petting Hedwig gently. "All those people that came forward and said that Lockhart had wiped people's memories..." She shakes her head, sitting across from him and frowning deeply. Lockhart's trial had started a few weeks ago, and Harry had testified against him in May, but details of his crimes had appearing in the Prophet since, each worse than the last.

"How many lives do you think he stole?" Harry asks, feeling sick at the very thought. "How many memories did he just wipe away?" He's going to be sentenced soon, Harry knows, and it can't come soon enough. Hermione looks at him, frowning so deeply that a little line appears on her forehead.

"Tell me what's in that parcel," Hermione says, changing the subject, and Harry looks down at the brown-paper wrapped package in his lap. It had come this morning, delivered by two eagle owls, and he strokes absent-mindedly over its wrapping.

"It's a tent," he answers, and she frowns at him. "A magical tent. Bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. Dumbledore won't let me leave the Dursleys, but I don't have to actually spend any time with them." Hermione gives a nod of her head, obviously approving of the idea, and Harry reaches up and into his trunk, pulling out an exploding snap set. He puts the tent in the corner, and the both of them sit cross-legged on the floor, setting out the cards between them. Harry had offered for Neville to come and sit in their carriage, but apparently Seamus, Ron and Dean needed a fourth player for some boardgame, and Neville was heading back to London with them.

After a little while, he asks in a conversational tone, "So, what do you think will go wrong next year?"

"Maybe you'll only get an A in Defence."

"Don't be unrealistic," Harry retorts, and Hermione begins to laugh. They laugh together, and Harry relaxes into it, embraces it. They're just two kids, taking the long way home, and until they reach King's Cross station, they can be completely and utterly normal for a while. Maybe they'll even put a record on.

He's going to embrace normality while it lasts.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I do stuff other than fanfic, aaaand there's some social media stuff below if that's your thing. Feel free to leave comments, or reach out and ask questions or talk to me about stuff! I love a natter now and then! <3
> 
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**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [PODFIC: The Serpent's Gaze: Slytherin's Secrets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11851869) by [DictionaryWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites)




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